


All the Broken Worlds

by Belassis (Mordaunt)



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alexandre Dumas - Freeform, Alternate Universe - True Blood Fusion, Circle of Madame Ancelot (historical), Fae & Fairies, Folklore, Francois Guizot (historical), Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, King Oberon - Freeform, Louis Philippe-King of the French (historical), Queen Mab - Freeform, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-01-16 22:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 62,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordaunt/pseuds/Belassis
Summary: In 1832, a young ambitious Gascon arrives in Paris. He is a descendant of the Great d' Artagnan and hopes to live up to his family name in the service of the Musketeers*. The world however is not that of his great ancestor. This is France after the Revolution that deposed the Bourbon monarchy and after the fall of Napoleon. Louis Philippe is now King of the French, assisted by his powerful advisor, the vampire, Minister Guizot.  It is also a world in the aftermath of the sinister events of March 1817 that ended with the disappearance of the two English magicians, Mr. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, and the coming of the Raven King who now rules from the Throne of Rome. Since then, boundaries between this world and the Other Lands have collapsed unleashing powers no one has been able to contain. A new prophecy speaks of new heroes, allies, and a sacrifice of love but the Raven King suppresses it because it clearly is not what he had expected. Who are these heroes and how are their destinies intertwined with the strange fate of the two lost magicians?*Dear Reader, please note that historically, the Musketeers had been disbanded by this period. I hope you can suspend your...disbelief!





	1. PART I: These and The Other Lands

 

_Monsieur,_

_I write to thank you for meeting with me last evening at the invitation of our mutual friend. I am honored to be trusted with such precious family records and journals as you have shared with me and hope my pen will do justice to your great ancestor, and the ancestors of your three closest friends. My father told me stories of war not dissimilar to the ones in your family journals. The stories you already shared bring to mind that ancient song by Thomas Ravenscroft, about comrades coming together to sing of war. As promised of course, my treatment of these heroes and their stories will never touch upon any connections to current events and contemporary personages, nor shall I ever reveal the peculiar circumstances under which these precious records came into my possession. I hope you trust my pen enough to let me invent a story about how I simply happened upon a historical trove from the times of the Great Cardinal. Once more Monsieur, your trust with these documents honors me greatly._

_In loyalty and friendship,_

_Alexandre Dumas_

_(Alexandre Dumas Archive, Wilson Library, Rare Books Collection, University of North Carolina, Folio 4: Monsieur Letter—signed—dated 1843)_


	2. Bloodlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired also by True Blood (esp. re: Vampire universe)

_Here, good fellow, I'll sing you a song,_  
_Sing for the brave and sing for the strong,_  
_To all those living and those who are gone,_  
_With never a penny of money_

_(“We be Soldiers Three”, Thomas Ravenscroft, c. 1590-1633)_

 

Paris, February 1832

 

He leans back on his chair, having played his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

> _Who’d have thought father. Who’d have imagined, that after just a week in Paris I would be sitting in the Old Dovecot tavern, the so-called lair of the Musketeers with three of the most famous, the ones you always hoped I could meet. You’d be so proud. I can hear your voice whispering to mother’s ear “See? I told you he’d be distinguished immediately. Just like his namesake, the Great d’ Artagnan!” I miss you father. Speaking to you in my thoughts is the only way to feel you close now that you are gone. And mother…._

From across the table he notices that Aramis has fixed her gaze on him. She makes him uncomfortable, this gentlewoman known as the best sharp shooter in all of France. Her eyes meet his. There is kindness in her eyes but the proud Gascon also perceives a lingering taunt. “You are new to Paris, aren’t you cadet?” The joke has been going on for the entire week, ever since the Captain persuaded them to give him a chance. It is true, he challenged all three to a duel within the first hour he met them, but the misunderstanding cleared quickly and not before he had proven himself. Captain de Treville reprimanded all four in public for dueling, and then, later, in his office, could no longer feign any anger. “You are a true descendant of all those impetuous d’ Artagnans that passed through this Garrison, young man! Well, if this is a sign of things to come, I’d say it is a good one!” That has been by far the best day of his life.

Aramis lowers her eyes. Perhaps she is embarrassed to be caught staring. She is not much older. Maybe they are even the same age. But she is more refined than any Gascon woman he ever met. And this lady also wears men’s clothes! She does not wear the full Musketeer uniform this evening, only breeches and a long leather coat with the Musketeer pauldron on her shoulder. Her black hair is braided all the way down to her waist. She wears an old silver cross around her neck. A family heirloom she explained, and useful when you fight vampires. Silver burns their skin and although crosses do not hurt them much they distract them enough to let you stake them through the heart. Aramis is one of the few women ever to enter the regiment. Like d’ Artagnan, she is a descendant of one of the Famous Four, the one who became Minister of France, and some say, may have even fathered a king.

It is almost forgotten now, that old story, together with all the other stories of kings, queens, and noble knights, after the Revolution and the events of March 1817, when the world changed forever. It all started in Venice but ended at Hurtfew Abbey, the ancestral home of the English magician called Mr. Norrell. Most people believe it was the two English magicians, the scholar Mr. Norrell and his pupil Mr. Strange, who shuttered the boundaries between our world and others, unleashing powers no one has been able to contain since. In the chaos that followed no one cared much about stories of kings, especially not in France. Just a few people like Monsieur de Treville, his father Monsieur d’ Artagnan the elder, and, he suspects, the fathers of his new comrades, preserved such old stories passing them to their children. He promises he will do the same someday.

Porthos, sitting right next to Aramis, shuffles the deck of cards. He smiles a wide smile narrowing his eyes. “Let’s see, if you can at least win this round, Gascon.” Porthos is the most impressive man d’ Artagnan has ever met. Tall, well built, with dark complexion, and black curly hair framing the most handsome face, and eyes the color of the summer sky. “Blue eyes, run in my mother’s family,” he winks at the woman who comes to pour him some wine. She smiles back. D’ Artagnan has discovered this past week that women find Porthos irresistible and he treats them all, no matter who they are, as if they are great ladies of the court. D’ Artagnan promises to do the same, especially after his first encounter with Mademoiselle Constance Bonacieux.

Let’s say, that did not go very well. As a matter of fact, it did not go well at all. Of course he was in the midst of having challenged three Musketeers to a duel and he was chased by a pack of what turned out to be werewolves. Still, he should not have mentioned he thought she was one of the women who worked the streets. She is surprisingly gracious despite that unfortunate first encounter. Her old uncle has a shop close to the Musketeer Garrison and rents the rooms above it.

 _“Bonacieux’s Emporium. Imported from India, China, and the Americas: Linens, Chintzes, Silks, Mitts, and Gloves for Ladies and Gentlemen,”_ states a sign over the door.

Aramis rents one of the upstairs rooms. She is currently the only woman in the Garrison and it would be unseemly for a young lady to reside at the same quarters as men. Sometimes, Aramis helps Constance at the shop. She claims it is a mere pastime, but d’ Artagnan suspects it helps pay her rent.

A tavern wench pours him more wine and Porthos deals. “Are you playing cadet or are you scared?”

“What is the point,” d’ Artagnan replies resigned, “you cheat, my friend.”

Porthos snorts, and from the other side of the table Athos raises his voice. “You realize Gascon that now you two must fight another duel? Porthos I fear we have to pretend we did not hear this new slight.” Athos is even more intimidating than Aramis. Athos’ father, the old Comte de la Fère, and Monsieur d’ Artagnan the elder, were more than friends and comrades in arms. They were almost brothers. Old nobility, d’ Artagnan’s father used to say, and among the most ancient families of France. But d’ Artagnan finds it difficult to warm up to this nobleman who is so reticent, remote, and aloof and the Best Swordsman in France, a title d’ Artagnan craves for himself. Constance intimated some nights ago, while he was helping her lock her uncle’s shop, that her lady customers consider Athos one of the most beguiling men in Paris, his aloofness adding to his allure. Unlike Porthos however, Athos treats all women with the same indifference he shows to everything else, except wine. “They say he was unlucky in marriage,” Constance explained. D’ Artagnan cannot imagine what woman could ever be equal to such a man. “But then again, maybe she was not a mortal woman,” shrugged Constance. “I’ve heard a rumor that she died but is not dead.”

That night d’ Artagnan could not sleep. It was the way that Constance shrugged at the idea of Athos being married to one of The Others. That is what they are called, all those now roaming this world freely, the vampires, the werewolves, the elves, the fair folk, and the rest of them. And what about all the innocents who suffer because of them? All those caught in the chaos brought about by the panic and the fear? D’ Artagnan’s mind returned to his mother, the kindest and most generous of women, who gave her love unconditionally not just to her son and husband but also to everyone who crossed her threshold asking for medicine. His mother who was burned at the stake by the same angry mob that lynched and killed his father when he tried to stop them. It is almost a year ago now but he knows he will never forget nor forgive.

They say there is a prophecy about the fate of this new world. The Church, ruled now by John Uskglass, also called The Raven King, the mysterious foster child of King Oberon of Faerie, has tried to suppress it. No one has actually read this prophecy, for it is written on one man’s skin, and that man is nowhere to be found. Once, more than a decade ago, a group of learned gentlemen gazed upon it, they say. They were English and scholars of Magic. To a true Frenchman these are the two parts of the story that render it unbelievable. For the English are never to be trusted, and despite all the madness in this world since the Raven King arrived, the French way is that of Reason, not of Magic. Still, the streets of Paris, the taverns, the marketplaces, even the Musketeer Garrison d’ Artagnan now shares with his new comrades, are abuzz with rumors, legends, and fragments of this prophecy which, they claim, predicts that one day balance and peace shall be restored and Reason shall rule once more. They speak of pure knights, and magic spells, of ancient princes, and a sacrifice of true love, those unconnected fragments of the lost prophecy. To the young Gascon they sound like the fairy tales his mother used to tell him when he was little and he finds it odd that anyone who seeks Reason may pursue it through obscure prophecies and Magic. Still, many believe in such childish fairy tales, even in France, and many have come forth to claim the prophesied roles for themselves these past fifteen years. Louis Philippe is prominent among them. His entire government as “King of the French” depends on people believing that he and his advisor, the vampire François Guizot, are predicted by this prophecy. D’ Artagnan is certain this is not so, although if he becomes a Musketeer, it is Louis Philippe and that despicable vampire Minister he will have to serve.

That same evening, as d’ Artagnan lay in his cot pondering about Reason, Magic, and the fate of the world, at Bonacieux’s Emporium clients were still coming and going just an hour before closing time. The old Bonacieux was running around, offering his advice on the choice of fabrics, defending his steep prices as the result a world where werewolves control all routes of lace trade, and calling out to Constance to serve this client or other. “Call that girl from upstairs. We are having a good night and if she wants to earn her keep she’d better lend a hand.” Constance had barely reached the foot of the stairs when she saw Aramis standing at the top, in her dark red dress. “Oh God, you scared me!” she exclaimed. “You always sneak up on me like this!”

It is true. Aramis has the uncanny habit of appearing just as you are talking or thinking about her, and sometimes, Constance is certain, she responds to something you only thought about. Just like d’ Artagnan, Constance, also, finds Aramis intimidating. And although she likes the idea of a woman Musketeer, and wishes sometimes she could be one too, on days like this, talking with young ladies, wives, mothers, and governesses in her uncle’s shop, it feels that a woman Musketeer is a creature completely out of place in a proper and settled world.

Aramis looked distracted but still obliged her landlady. Despite her usual cutting wit, Aramis was shy and withdrawn. Constance had noticed early in their acquaintance how crowds always overwhelmed Aramis, a chink on her otherwise immaculate façade.

The man walked in alone. Constance had seen him often. He was one of their best clients. He was generous, knowledgeable in many things, discriminating in his expensive tastes, and courteous. He was not exactly handsome but there was something in his manner of speech, his gestures, and the light in his eyes that made him attractive. An old scar marked his left temple and eye and Constance found it enthralling to imagine different reasons why his pale complexion would be marked thus. Perhaps it was a duel fought over a lover, a lady of some foreign exotic court, like the one of Russia, for he was surely a well-traveled man. That evening however, it was Aramis who walked up to him. She too appeared intrigued by his presence and Constance decided to ask her later if she also thought he fought a duel in Russia. The transaction was short and not many words were exchanged. He bought a pair of the most expensive velvet gloves, bowed politely, and left.

“Constance, I need to get out of here,” Aramis sounded upset and worried. “The man who bought the gloves…” She was trying to articulate something but it was difficult. “…These two other clients, the man and the woman, who were looking at the silks… They are planning to rob him!” Constance was shocked. She had seen the couple enter. They were not regular clients or people she had ever seen before. “How do you know? Did you hear them?” Aramis looked flustered at first and then added hastily, “yes…yes… I heard them.” The commotion did not escape the old merchant who rushed to see what was preventing his clients getting served. He was unmoved. “Well, let them,” he shrugged.

“But, uncle, he is one of our best clients,” protested Constance.  

“He is also a vampire,” snorted the old man. “I say, let us take their money if we can, but God bless those who clean up the world from vampire scum.”

Aramis was already at the door. “Stop please,” Constance reached out to hold her back. “Think about it for a moment! If he is indeed a vampire he is a killer.” Aramis would not be deterred. “Constance, I have taken an oath to protect the innocent and right now that is an innocent who is about to walk into a trap!” She disappeared in the night.

When the world changed, Paris at night became even more dangerous than it used to be. After many trials and errors, the officials of Paris decided it would be best for commerce to have the central part of the city lighted with large torches and gaslight, keeping galleries, theaters, shops, and restaurants working after sunset. This was a great expense for the city, and it meant that the rest was left in darkness, a place where all kinds of Others, as well as criminals, thugs, and spies could lurk protected in the shadows. Aramis now found herself alone in one such deserted alley, her steps echoing on the pavement as she walked alone deeper into the darkness. She realized she had no weapons. Her sword and pistols were left back at Bonacieux’s. Looking around she noticed a rusted old chain and hook hanging at the porch of what seemed to be a decrepit butcher shop. She grabbed it as she walked. “Better than nothing,” she whispered to herself. She stood still in the middle of the empty street and focused her mind. She knew exactly where she had to go.

The vampire was lying on the ground. He did not seem restrained by anything but clearly he could not move. Aramis could see a woman and a man leaning over him. They were the same two people she had seen at the shop. A third man was standing guard. He was restless and sounded anxious. “Move it! How long does it take to drain a damned vampire?” So that is what they were doing. Vampire blood is a powerful drug and highly valued. Unlike the addictive opium available in the city’s many opium dens, vampire blood is said to heighten the senses without being addictive. It circulates widely among the most fashionable Parisian elites and at court, harvested by thugs like these. Aramis walked slowly behind the man guarding the scene hurling her chain and hitting the back of his head with the hook. He screamed falling senseless on the pavement. The woman looked up, yelling, “we are discovered, do something!” Her partner pulled a pistol. “Well, what do we have here? My,my,my… you are brave, young lady!”

Aramis was quite aware that her position was hopeless. She was standing in a deserted alley, in the middle of the night, in a dress, with no weapons, facing one criminal and probably a second too, who was simply stunned and could come to his senses at any minute. She held on to the rusted chain, hurling it once more against the man with the pistol. What followed was entirely odd and unexpected. The chain darted from her hands, wrapping around the man’s neck, as if it had a life of its own. Dropping his weapon in shock, the man attempted to remove the chain but it seemed to grip him harder the more he tried. “He is being choked! What did you do, bitch?” yelled the woman as she ran to help her partner. Aramis grabbed the pistol from the ground and pointed it at them. “Leave both of you and take your friend along. Do it now!” The chain, fell to the ground, lifeless, and the pair of thugs raised their unconscious partner from the pavement, scurrying away as fast as they could.

Aramis walked up to the vampire. His already pale face was sallow, and he was obviously in pain, but he was definitely conscious. A thin silver chain was spread over his chest burning into his skin. That is how they managed to restrain him. A vampire like this would be no match for such wretched thugs. Both his arms were restrained with the same long silver chain. One of his forearms was already slit with a small silver lancet and blood was being collected in a small silver bowl underneath it. Glass bottles were all around him. Some were already filled with vampire blood. The silver lancet had been left in the vampire’s skin and the wound was bleeding profusely. Aramis knelt by his side. “I need to remove this scalpel,” she said. He nodded. “The silver chain may be harder to remove,” she added. “I can manage pain,” he said and his voice was barely audible. She removed the kerchief covering her neck, and pressed it against the deep wound as she removed the scalpel. The chain was indeed much harder to remove. It stripped his skin leaving a deep, red, burning mark on his chest and arms. And then, something remarkable happened. The deep cut in his arm and his scarred skin both started to heal in seconds. Aramis sprung to her feet as soon as he was free, quickly wrapping the long silver chain around her neck. For now, she suddenly realized, her position had become more perilous. She was standing alone in a dark alley, facing a powerful, starving, vampire who had been drained of almost all his blood. She had an image in her mind of being attacked immediately. Vampires are after all much faster than humans.

To her surprise he stood up slowly. He smiled feebly. “Good move. I would wrap that chain around my neck too.” His eyes lingered on her exposed neck, on the long silver chain, and then rested with great interest on her old silver cross. “What are you?”

“I am not sure what you mean, Monsieur.” She was sure he had seen the chain flying from her hands and acting as if it had a life of its own. But for that extraordinary incident she had no explanation. “I am… well… I am a Musketeer.”

He looked intrigued. “A _woman_ Musketeer! I have heard this happens. You saved my life, Mademoiselle Musketeer. I thank you.” He bowed with his head.

Aramis, bowed back. “Wait, my turn now! My question!” her wit was slowly returning. “What is your name?  

He seemed astonished to be asked. “Jacques.”

To her surprise, Aramis heard herself giggle. “Jacques? You are a vampire named…Jacques? I thought your kind had dramatic names, like Alessandro or Gaspar or Delano….”

“No. I am just Jacques,” he was clearly amused. “Well, my turn then, Mademoiselle. What is your name?” 

“Renée.”

A fleeting light crossed his eyes. Was he about to mock her? Say something equally snide about how Musketeers also have dramatic names? But then, again, it felt like something else altogether. It felt like recognition.

“Well, Renée,” he smiled. “You should not be standing here in the middle of the night with a hungry vampire. It is time to go home.”

She turned to grab the pistol from the ground but before she even looked up he had already disappeared in the night.

 


	3. Bloodless Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired also by True Blood (esp. Vampire universe)

_…I never felt the kiss of love,  
_ _Nor maiden's hand in mine …_

_(Alfred Lord Tennyson, Sir Galahad, 1842)_

 

Athos cannot sleep either. The boy from Gascony stirs memories of his youth. He was seventeen when the dark cloud from Venice covered the world for weeks leaving it forever changed. His was a difficult childhood. Son of an unforgiving, demanding, father and an unbending, distant, mother. He was raised to fulfill the many family expectations. He was taught duty and discipline, sometimes in ways harsh for one so young. He had tutors and fencing masters but not much warmth or love. Still, he looks back on those years with fondness and a sense of loss, for he wishes he still possessed those qualities he sees in this young Gascon. The innocence of youth, the eagerness to please, the impetuousness, and the desire to savor all that the world has to offer.

A creaking noise stirs him from his reverie. It comes from his window although the night is quiet, no wind or rain, just a quiet moonless sky. It is a familiar sound. His heart stirs with anticipation. In his mind, his mother’s severe, rigid, voice, speaks to him of his weakness. “You brought this shame upon us. It killed your father and disgraced our name.”

Outside his window another voice, playful and soft, whispers:

 

> _“She is coming, my dove, my dear;_
> 
> _She is coming, my life, my fate;_
> 
> _The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"_
> 
> _And the white rose weeps, "She is late_ _;" (1)_

He knows that no matter how much his mind resists he will invite her in, as he does every night when she comes to his window.

She stands now in the middle of the room, pale, tall, with her hazel eyes reflecting the candlelight. She is wearing a white dress cut in the Grecian style, her black hair fashioned in the same manner, looking exactly the way she looked the night he first met her at the masquerade ball of Baron de Renard. He knew little of the world beyond his father’s lectures on duty and the boundaries of their estate back then. He was bound to fall, and he did fall, immediately, body and soul. He has never recovered and in his darkest moments he wonders if he really wants to. Being damned is comfortable and comforting. Later, as the two of them lie in his bed together, she kisses his lips and the fresh bite marks on his neck. “I love you, my sweet prince.” It is a lie but he cares little for the truth. The truth is, that this night, and all the nights before, he has been lying with a vampire, a progeny of Queen Lilith, who was turned almost two hundred years ago in the plague infested streets of London.

She motions to leave. “It is almost dawn, sweet prince.”

He smiles feebly. “Perhaps there will come a time when you will be able to stay.”

She kisses his lips. They have never spoken of it, but they both share a secret hope. That someday they may both find redemption. He wakes up a few hours later, alone, the first sounds of the Garrison stirring in the courtyard below. In full Musketeer gear Athos walks out, his usual, quiet, self.

Porthos is already up, scolding some frightened stable boy about the state of his horse. “Can you understand this, Athos?” Porthos growls, pretending to be angry. “A Musketeer’s horse is always brushed before duty! Perhaps we can ask the Gascon farm-boy to do it,” he adds as d’ Artagnan emerges from the mess hall eating an apple.

“All four! In my office! Now!”, a stern voice from above puts an end to Porthos’ taunting. Captain de Treville is obviously not entertained. “Where is Aramis?”

“Here Captain!” echoes a voice from the gate. “I am here!”

“You were late,” Athos is annoyed. “You are a Musketeer not an employee at Bonacieux’s emporium. Did he make you work late?” They are preparing for their mission, to accompany the royal correspondence between Lille and Paris.

When she joined the Musketeers, Aramis promised herself she would never use her gift—or is it a curse—on her companions. It has cost her too much already, this singular and unnatural ability to hear people’s thoughts. But when Athos is acting in this manner she finds it difficult to suppress that which comes so naturally to her since birth. She does not know why exactly but Athos of all people is the one she least cares to know anything about. Perhaps it is because his thoughts are so powerful and his inner voice so intense. It takes significant effort to keep him from intruding her mind every time he is around. She avoids looking at him, her head already buzzing with a multitude of words she is trying hard not to discern. “I apologized to the Captain, and that should be enough for you also,” she replies and rides off, next to Porthos.

The roads between Lille and Paris are well protected with spells commissioned by the King, Louis Philippe, to John Childermass, the only known practicing magician left after the disappearance of Mr. Norrell and his pupil, Mr. Strange. It is said that John Childermass, who was a servant to Mr. Norrell, agreed to help the French in exchange for a special permission to meet with the Raven King in Rome, whose follower he has always been, and whom no one ever sees in person besides a selected few. But this is just a rumor and no one really knows the truth about what enticed that dark English magician to help the French, casting protective spells over the roads royal correspondence travels.

The journey was long and overall uneventful. On a couple of occasions they could see the pack of werewolves that d’Artagnan foolishly provoked on his first day in Paris, following them through the forest along the road. Aramis fired three silver bullets from her horse killing three members of the pack, which made the rest of them disperse. They would return of course, but not any time soon. Werewolves can keep a grudge longer than vampires. Two days later the four of them and the king’s letters were back in Paris.

“I missed you, sweet lady,” Porthos smiles his most attractive smile to Pascaline, the eldest daughter of Monsieur Pascal, the owner of the Old Dovecot. “Don’t tease me, Monsieur,” she laughs, “for my father shall have us marry tomorrow and I will not refuse!” D’ Artagnan’s mind is clearly not in the hand of cards he is supposed to play. “Athos, I think that our young friend here is too tired to play and wants to turn in early,” winks Porthos. “And it just so happens that from here to the Garrison the route goes by that emporium where he can get some decent clothes for when he accompanies the royal correspondence again!” The boy laughs. “I admit it Porthos! I would like to wish Mademoiselle Bonacieux, a good evening!”

Aramis likes this boy more every day. He is brave, good-natured, and honest. “Gascon, time to go! I will walk you to the Garrison, if you walk me home!” She nudges him from the table. It is now early evening and the torches are being lit in the center of the city. Mademoiselle Bonacieux is walking home too, later than usual, from Madame Ancelot’s house. She works as a dressmaker for the famous painter, whose house is the greatest literary salon in Paris. “They are hosting another soirée this evening,” she explains. D’ Artagnan is so eager to talk to Constance that it does not need any mind reading skills for Aramis to know she should better leave them alone. She pretends to linger at the window of a bookstore across the street from the emporium, to give them privacy.

“Mademoiselle Musketeer!”, a filthy boy pulls her sleeve. “Please, my mother had an accident. Can you please help us?” It is a not an unusual request. People sometimes ask for assistance when they see the Musketeer uniform. Without thinking much about it she follows the boy away from the main street. He is walking faster and faster, turning into one alley and then another, and another. Soon they are both running. She is suddenly aware that she is lost in this maze of backstreets. She turns one more corner. It is a dead end. The boy has disappeared. She sees three figures emerging from the shadows. Two of them are clearly men and the third is smaller. A woman? Aramis pulls out her pistol preparing to fire, backing out, but she is blocked by someone—or something—standing behind her. She feels its breath on her neck. She knows this breath. The breath of a troll is unmistakably foul. And this must be a large one. She plans fast. Trolls are stupid and awkward but physically stronger than most Others, except perhaps Ogres and Cyclopes. But she has never encountered either of those. She carefully pulls the dagger from her belt and stabs the beast’s leg. She hopes it is enough to distract it. Nothing happens. The beast grabs her from the waist instead, as the three figures approach. She has seen them before, she now realizes, some nights ago, draining the vampire. The woman, and the two men, one with a bruised face and his head wrapped with a bandage. They are holding daggers. “You have no idea how much you cost us,” growls the man with the bruised face as he punches her in the stomach. She feels a knife too, somewhere below her ribs and blood gushing through her throat and in her mouth. In those few moments before losing consciousness, she is seized by some unseen force. “Perhaps this is how you die,” she thinks, “blown away by the wind.” She hears yells and screams, and the force gets stronger and more violent. Aramis surrenders to the darkness. The next morning workers on their way to a laundry nearby would discover the disfigured bodies of two men, a woman, and a giant troll.

Someone shakes her awake. “Drink damn you!” the voice growls. She cannot think. She cannot see. “Drink what?” she tries to ask, but cannot speak. Is she dreaming? “Drink damn you! Drink!” She feels skin against her face and something warm—is this blood?—rushing into her mouth.  

Aramis opens her eyes in someone else’s bed. It is large and has soft silk sheets and some kind of damask canopy. She tries to move but feels a sharp pain under her ribs. “I would not move yet.” The voice sounds familiar. Her eyes focus on the blurry shape sitting at the side of the bed. The vampire. Jacques.

“It is you…” she is surprised that her voice is barely stronger than a whisper, “What..? How long…?”

“You were attacked by the same blood harvesting gang that attacked me three nights ago. Only this time they brought a large friend along,” he explains. “It was just two hours ago.”

Two hours? It felt like days. She looks at him in disbelief. “How on earth am I alive?”

He hesitates before answering. “Vampire blood. I had no idea what to do. You were bleeding to death.” She raises herself on the pillows despite the sharp pain, which is, however, a bit less sharp now. “You gave me vampire blood? You turned me?” 

“Of course I did not!” he scoffs. “It takes quite a bit of work to turn someone. I thought you would know this! Vampire blood is not just a drug for rich bored aristocrats. It heals, if you know how to use it. Of course, you understand, we don’t want this particular property of our blood known to many people.”

“Of course,” she consents.

“You should stay in bed for a while. Vampire blood heals but it cannot work miracles.”

It is only now that she realizes she is wearing a fine linen shirt rather than her clothes. “You undressed me?”

“You were covered with blood. You realize that, don’t you?” he clearly finds all this amusing and it annoys her. “I am glad you are angry and feeling better already! Listen, this is the best I could do.”

“And I thank you. You saved my life. Still, this is somewhat embarrassing for me.”

He smiles. “I guess we are even now. Remember our little game a few nights ago? It is my turn to ask one more time. What on earth are you?”

“I don’t understand your question, Monsieur,” she retorts. “I am a Musketeer. I rent at Bonacieux’s. What do you want to know? Why?”

“Your blood is different…” he begins and she interrupts him in panic.

“You tasted my blood?”

“No,” he explains calmly, “but your blood was everywhere, on your clothes, on mine… And I am a vampire. Remember? We, are very good at detecting these things.”

She seems assuaged momentarily. “So how is my blood different?”

He looks into her eyes for the first time. “It smells like sunshine.”

There is an awkward silence, which she breaks immediately. “So, my turn. What is your real name, Jacques?”

He smiles. “Don’t you know?”

She nods. “Yes, I think I do. But I want you to tell me.”

“Jacques Henri Comte de Rochefort.” He makes an elegant little bow with his head. “And you are…?”

“Renée d’ Herblay.” It is her best-rehearsed lie. She has been practicing it all her life.

He looks incredulous. “Ah, but you see Mademoiselle, even if you were not wearing that old silver cross around your neck, I would know you immediately. You have your grandmother’s eyes and she was no d’ Herblay. Well not exactly grandmother. It is many generations ago. I mean Anne of Austria, a Queen I once knew well. As for your father’s side, whether Minister d’ Herblay had something to do with it I do not know nor care, although there was a time it mattered greatly to me. But I was another person then. In other words, Mademoiselle, you are a Bourbon.”

She looks at him flustered and angry. “Never say that name to me, Monsieur! Never call me by that name! My father suffered horrible torture as a child in the hands of his revolutionary captors. He saw his parents at the guillotine. His mother dragged in the streets and lynched before her death. He would never speak of that cursed name. Do you understand? Never! And d’ Herblay is an old and honorable name! It is the name I choose. It is the person I choose to be!” She tries to sit up but realizes it is too soon.

He is taken aback by her passionate reaction. He touches her hand. “I am terribly sorry, I did not mean to upset you. It was cruel of me. I can be cruel at times still I fear.”

“They say you were vicious once.”

“Oh yes, and much more. Bitter, hateful, and obsessed. Like your father I endured much torture, but unlike him, I became the same monster as my captors. I craved power, schemed, and killed, and one day I realized that the only thing I had left was my hatred. I died in the queen’s anteroom alone having betrayed everyone and everything that was once precious to me. When spymaster Vargas turned me, for he was my Maker, I was convinced I deserved this new hell. But it seems that becoming a vampire cures madness. Believe me, there were days at the beginning when I wished I was mad rather than living with this guilt for all eternity…”

“But you are a vampire, you kill…”

“Not necessarily. But yes, sometimes we must kill in order to survive. It is who we are. I cannot change this. But being a vengeful monster that craves power? That I can change. It is the kind of person I choose to be.”

“I am glad you don’t pretend to be something you are not. I will not either. So here it is. My turn. I can hear people’s thoughts.”

He looks perplexed. “You mean, like a medium? Images…?”

“No,” she explains, sitting up on the bed now. “I mean an endless string of words, and thoughts, and hopes, and desires. I hear everything. It was terrifying when I was younger. My father tried to protect me. Especially after things changed and innocent people were being burned at the stake as witches. I stopped talking about it, and learned to contain it. But it is always there, at the back of my mind, that constant hive, that constant buzzing sound of people’s thoughts….”

“Can you hear me?”

She smiles. “I had never met a vampire before I walked up to you in Bonacieux’s emporium. Truth be told, I had killed a few, but none of them were like you. I mean, intelligent, aristocratic, and elegant.” He bows acknowledging the compliment. “They were more like dead, mindless, wild things. I realized that night that you are silent to me. Completely silent. And I love silence. It is a rare gift.”

“So now we are even, Mademoiselle,” he laughs. “You grant me the fragrance of sunshine, and I, the gift of silence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Alfred Lord Tennyson, Maud, 1855.


	4. Mirror Image

 

> _I gave magic to England, a valuable inheritance_
> 
> _But Englishmen have despised my gift_
> 
> _Magic shall be written upon the sky by the rain but they shall not be able to read it_
> 
> _Magic shall be written on the faces of the stony hills but their minds shall not be able to contain it_
> 
> _(Prophecy of The Raven King, Lines 18-21)_
> 
>  

The Salon of Madame Ancelot is crowded just as Constance said. Monsieur Hugo is the guest of honor. He will read from his _Les Feuilles d'automne_ and might even be persuaded to read excerpts from his _Notre-Dame de Paris_ , the book all of Paris has been talking about a few years now. Porthos, a frequent guest of the salon, enjoys the stimulating exchange of ideas and the heated political discussions. Madame Ancelot, his lover for some years, and still on occasion, welcomes him with a kiss. She is radiant, dressed in a provocative green dress, a diamond necklace around her long neck that makes her dark beautiful eyes shine. She is almost forty, but her beauty, elegance, and intelligence makes her stand out above many young Parisian ladies who would hope to catch the eye of a man like Porthos.

“I am so happy you could come tonight, Paul. How was Lille? Provincial as usual? We have a full house this evening,” she says as she takes the arm he offers. “Monsieur Lamartine has arrived already. Minister Guizot sent word he will be attending. I still have not heard from Monsieur Dumas, but you know how he is when Monsieur Hugo is reading.” Monsieur Dumas is particularly careful to invite himself only when he is bound to be the center of attention. Porthos however, enjoys Monsieur Dumas’ stories and unbridled wit more than the austere Monsieur Hugo. 

“Baron, perhaps we can persuade you to improvise a card trick for us later in the evening?” Madame Segalas kisses him boldly on the cheek.

“Dearest Anaïs, no one should compete with Monsieur Hugo this evening. Apparently not even the formidable Monsieur Dumas is willing to do so!”

She laughs. Porthos adores Madame Segalas, with whom he shares a childhood friendship, a creole ancestry, and the same taste in poetry. Among the people in this salon, he is no longer the Musketeer Porthos. Despite their radical and progressive political views, they acknowledge him by his old family title, the one his ancestor, the famous Musketeer, gained in the service of the Great King Louis. Delphine de Girardin, the journalist, is here too, smiling at Porthos across the room, her blond curls framing the soft features of her face and her lean figure wrapped in a fanciful gold trimmed dress.

“Ah, dearest Baron,” Madame Segalas teases him observing the silent exchange with Madame de Girardin, “I believe you may be contemplating something at once pleasurable and sinful.”

“Well, isn’t everything pleasurable also sinful?”

“I hear dear Delphine is still content in her marriage but it seems to me you will soon discover more on this subject, Baron,” she laughs.

There is some commotion among the guests, as Minister Guizot, the vampire, enters the salon. The Minister of Education and the King’s closest advisor seems out of place in this group of radical intellectuals and artists, but despite his royalist and conservative views he joins them often. Porthos wonders if he too, a King’s Musketeer, does not seem out of place in this company. But then again, he feels at home here, among childhood friends and lovers, old and new. He grew up in a house not dissimilar to this. His parents, both great patrons of the arts, were always eager to socialize with the most interesting and creative people of their time. Porthos’ was a happy childhood, surrounded by constant and delightful chaos. Foreign visitors coming and going, explorers, painters, musicians, poets, theatrical productions, his mother playing the harp, his father debating Rousseau’s _Émile, ou De l’éducation_ and insisting his son stays up well after midnight to listen.

Monsieur Guizot is not the only vampire in this company. Monsieur de Rochefort is a regular, especially when Monsieur Hugo, whom he admires deeply, is the guest of honor. The two vampires clash fiercely over politics, Monsieur de Rochefort being often too radical even for Porthos. It is not that Porthos does not know who Rochefort has been in his human life. Stories about Comte de Rochefort the traitor, the conspirator, the murderer, the assailant, and the mad advisor to King Louis XIII, were told and retold throughout his youth as cautionary tales. Still, he cannot help but look forward to his conversations with the vampire, even if, on occasion, he finds his political views extreme. But this evening, Monsieur de Rochefort is not attending, which is unexpected.

Madame de Girardin approaches with a gentleman Porthos has never seen before. He is a small man with a neat figure, dark eyes, and gray hair. He looks Italian. However, his demeanor is so timid and his manner so self-effacing that Porthos has no doubt that this gentleman is English. “My dear Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, permit me to introduce you to another celebrity in our midst this evening, visiting us from London. This is the famous theoretical magician, Monsieur John Segundus who gave us the only complete biography of the English magician Monsieur Jonathan Strange!”

Porthos bows politely to their English guest. “I understand Monsieur Segundus you once interrupted an important spell by Monsieur Strange.”

“Oh, Sir, yes, indeed! That was my first meeting with Mr. Strange!” Mr. Segundus sounds excited to meet a Frenchman who knows the story. “You may not be familiar with the place where it happened…”

“On the contrary Monsieur, I visited Shadow House when in England on the King’s business a year ago. I took a slight detour to Avebury from Oxford, where his Majesty had sent me. I have always wanted to see the house that Maria Absalom turned into a ruin just to invite the Raven King, and of course the place where Monsieur Segundus and Monsieur Honeyfoot first met Monsieur Strange, setting in motion the series of events that have led us here today. As a Frenchman, I fear, I consider all this a dark chapter of our history, Monsieur. But I admit that the place is more intriguing than I would ever have imagined.” 

Mr. Segundus shakes his head. “Who would have thought it, Sir? Who, indeed? We were so young, eager, and excited at the time. Who would have thought it would all end in such a terrible manner. And yes Sir, those were strained times between our two great nations, strained and violent times. But, excuse me, are you a fellow theoretical magician, dear Baron?”

Porthos laughs. “Oh no Monsieur, not in the least. But I happened to read Monsieur Strange’s _History and Practice of English Magic_ before it mysteriously disappeared.”

“Oh that was a sad business, a sad business indeed!” Mr. Segundus is genuinely sorrowful. “Mr. Norrell deprived us all of a seminal work on practical Magic.”

Porthos thinks for a moment. It is a question that has been in his mind for a long time, long before he walked the ruined halls of Shadow House, where he is certain he heard a woman singing. “Monsieur Segundus, was that the end of practical Magic? If the Raven King has returned and rules now from Rome and if all kinds of Others are free to roam our world, why are there no practical magicians? Well… besides Monsieur Childremass. But he is too secretive and rarely practices his art for the people. Was the English Revival of practical Magic the end of that art?”

Mr. Segundus looks surprised. “Oh my dear Baron, you remind me of myself when I was a young man! It was the same question I put to Mr. Norrell when I first visited his great library at Hurtfew. You remind me of myself Sir, so inquisitive and eager!”

“Dear Friends!” Standing on the top of the grand staircase that leads to an upstairs ballroom, Madame Ancelot interrupts her guests. “Dear Friends! It is time to move to the ballroom where our honored guest Monsieur Hugo will read to us from his collection of poems. Who knows? We may convince him to honor us also with a chapter or two from the story of Quasimodo and Esmeralda!” Everyone applauds and slowly moves upstairs.

The evening is as exciting as promised. Monsieur Hugo has captivated his audience with his poetry and prose alike. Some of the ladies weep for the fate of the noble hunchback. Even Minister Guizot appears to be touched. Perhaps he recognizes himself in this story of the redeemed monster. At least he wants to present himself in this manner to the citizens of France, exploiting the lost prophecy to maintain his power.

“Dear Baron, please show us a card trick!” cries the indomitable Madame Segalas as they sit in the salon enjoying a late evening glass of wine. “Oh yes, indeed,” Madame de Girardin chimes in. “And how appropriate, as Monsieur Segundus is also our guest this evening!”

Porthos blushes. “Dear Monsieur Segundus please do not think of this as any Magic. It is merely a trick!” He performs a simple trick first, one where the card changes right under your nose and then the one where you seem to grab cards out of thin air. Everyone in the room is enjoying the diversion. Everyone, except Monsieur Guizot, that is, who appears to be annoyed. As the applause and laughter die down, the vampire’s stern voice echoes in the room. “Come, Monsieur. These are tricks for children. On the other hand, who would dare to attempt real Magic? For that would be a direct challenge against the Raven King Himself.” Porthos feels the eyes of the entire room on him. He is being taunted and by one of Monsieur de Treville’s superiors. His pride cannot take this provocation, dangerous though it is.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” he retorts diplomatically. “It would be foolish and treasonous to do any Magic in the era of Our Holy Lord, King and Emperor of Rome. Since He returned, His is the only Magic of this world and all the worlds beyond. But perhaps another card trick might entertain you?”

He has little idea what to do, but his brief encounter with Mr. Segundus earlier, reminds him of something he had read in Mr. Strange’s book and always hoped to attempt. Just not in public and certainly not like this. But it is too late. It is an old spell that Mr. Strange had reworked into a most elegant piece of Magic.

Porthos asks the hostess, Madame Ancelot to pick a card from his deck. It is the Queen of Spades. He sets it on a table in front of a large mirror that covers part of the wall in the salon. The spell is easy to recall even after so many years. It plays in his mind, like a simple, perfectly harmonious, musical phrase. “There, Your Grace!” he announces proudly.

Monsieur Guizot stands up reluctantly. “There, where, Baron? I see nothing at all.” The salon is completely silent. It is not true that vampires do not have a reflection in mirrors. They do, but they don’t particularly like to look into them, since mirrors are lined with silver. They say it blinds them momentarily, but then again, there is no way to know if this is true. Monsieur Guizot now stands in front of the table and the mirror, frowning.

“Oh my dear Baron! My dear Baron! This is brilliant! Mr. Segundus’ is ecstatic. “Observe Monsieur Guizot! Observe the card in front of you! Try to pick it up!”

The vampire is not convinced at all but extends his hand to pick up the card. There is nothing in front of him. Just air. He stops, perplexed. The entire room gasps.

“Exactly Monsieur,” Mr. Segundus interjects. “This, right here in front of you is just a reflection! The real card is now on the other side of the mirror! Oh dear Baron, brilliant! One of Mr. Strange’s most elegant spells!”

The room breaks into loud applause. Everyone attempts to lift the card from the table only to experience that it is not there. Minister Guizot is not amused. “Can you reverse this Baron? Return this card from wherever it is you sent it?” It is a targeted question. If Guizot, like Porthos, has read Mr. Strange’s book, and he seems to have, then he knows that Mr. Strange never managed to reverse this spell. But Porthos feels bold and at the back of his mind a new melody is now unleashed, bringing together the elements of the old spell in an entirely new combination. The answer is obvious. He cannot understand how Mr. Strange never saw it. In no time the card is back, sitting solid on the table. The guests are thrilled, applauding, and shouting with delight and excitement but also with apprehension.

“This is Magic! Magic in Paris! Magic in France!”

The next morning two letters are sent from Paris. The first is from Minister Guizot to the Raven King in Rome. He writes with the Deep Magic that the King uses to protect all his correspondence, so the exact content of the letter is impossible to know. But there is no doubt it relates the exploits of a certain Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds also known as the Musketeer Porthos, at Madame Ancelot’s soirée. The second is by Mr. Segundus addressed to Porthos. It simply says: “My dearest Baron, I ask for the honor to meet with you somewhere safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madame Ancelot's circle existed and included Madame Segalas (author, poet), Madame Girardin (journalist) and many intellectuals of the time. Francois Guizot attended on occasion- he was Minister of Education at the time (and not a vampire of course.) The character of Rochefort in this story is partially and loosely based on Victor-Henri Rochefort, marquis de Rochefort-Lucay, the polemical and controversial journalist, who was born in 1830 (so *historically* could not be part of this circle.)


	5. Lethe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by True Blood (esp. Vampire universe)

_I shall not see the shadows,  
_ _I shall not feel the rain;  
_ _I shall not hear the nightingale  
_ _Sing on as if in pain;_

 _And dreaming through the twilight  
_ _That doth not rise nor set,  
_ _Haply I may remember,  
_ _And haply I may forget_

 _(Christina Rossetti, Song, 1848)_  

She closes the old Bible. It is dawn. She has been leafing through its pages ever since she stole back into her room, wearing her blood stained breeches and the clean fine linen shirt Rochefort gave her. The brittle pages crackle softly between her fingers, and a familiar, soothing, smell of leather and old paper brings back memories of sitting with her father by the fire. They never spoke in those moments. He too would repeat the same silent ritual, turning the pages of the old Bible and, inevitably, reaching the last page, where, names, births, and deaths have been recorded for generations. They begin with _Louis_ _Dieudonné, Sept. 5, 1638. The Godgiven child. Son of Rene D’ Herblay and Anne the Most Beloved_. Alongside a silver cross studded with rubies and a rapier engraved with a fleur de lys and the initial A, this old inscribed Bible is her only other inheritance from her father. She wears the cross proudly around her neck and keeps the old sword mounted on the wall of her room, tokens of the only ancestry she cares to admit to. The Bible she keeps locked in a drawer by her bed. It is her most precious possession and the most dangerous. “It is best not to remember, my dearest girl,” her father would answer softly every time she insisted on hearing about the secret cave, the one by the Royal Oak in the garden at Versailles, where he would hide as a boy looking for dryads. The same cave where the Great Louis hid during a storm only to overhear the timid La Valliere confessing her love of him. “Did you ever find any dryads father?” He would laugh, kiss her on the forehead, and say “of course my love, for here you are!”

At the Garrison that morning d’ Artagnan is eagerly preparing for his first royal assignment with Porthos and Captain de Treville. “You should read your orders in the Captain’s eyes. Do not expect him to explain anything to you. Same with Her Majesty. Be ready to act even before she commands it!” Athos is tense and Aramis does not have to read his thoughts to know he feels just like the rest of them. Anxious to see their young friend prove himself to their Captain and be noticed by the Queen. Porthos carefully measures the young man from head to toe. “Buckle your belt tighter young man, your sword is hanging too low, and don’t let your cloak trail behind you when you walk. Remember to stand straight and do not slouch.”

D’ Artagnan laughs. “We are not going to a dance Porthos! We are riding with the Captain, accompanying Her Majesty’s pilgrimage to Amiens.”

Monsieur de Treville is already mounted. “Athos, you are in charge of the Garrison now,” he proclaims, handing him a sealed envelope with his orders. “Be ready, in case we need your immediate assistance. The road to Amiens is not protected with spells as well as the road to Lille.”

Athos nods, “Aye, Captain. Good luck!”

It promises to be a long day at the Garrison, training cadets, overseeing the guard shifts at the Palais Royal, and remaining at a state of alert all night in case the Captain requests reinforcements. Aramis is already exhausted, given the events of the previous, sleepless, night. The buzzing at the back of her mind is difficult to suppress today but what is worse is that somehow all sounds around her are louder than ever before. And the smells are stronger.

“What is wrong with you today? Today, of all days?” Athos scowls. “Both you and Porthos.” It is true. Porthos too, who is usually lighthearted and joyous seemed troubled in the morning.

As the day draws on, activity at the garrison increases. Everyone expects a long and sleepless night waiting for the confirmation that the Queen and her retinue reached Amiens safely. The message finally arrives after midnight.

“Go home, Aramis. You really need to rest for a few hours, my friend. And don’t let that scoundrel Bonacieux use you in his shop again or he will hear from me!” Athos looks concerned. It is clear that Monsieur de Treville prepares him to be Captain one day. And the truth is that although Aramis finds Athos’ aloofness and gloomy disposition frustrating, she respects him deeply, trusts his decisions, and knows he cares for the well being of everyone he considers a friend and comrade.

She notices him the moment she steps out of the Garrison. He is standing across the street, under the arches of a building, an old abandoned house, now used occasionally as a morgue by the city authorities. He is elegantly dressed, as usual, and gracefully bows touching the brim of his hat. “Perhaps I could walk you home Mademoiselle? Just in case. It is well after midnight and you seem to attract trouble lately.” 

She does not decline his offer not only because she has so many questions but because—and she is astonished to admit it—she misses the serenity that envelops her when he is close.

“Are you feeling… well…better?” It is the beginning of a question that is meant to inquire about something else. She cannot read his thoughts but the dissimulation is clear.

“Well yes and no, Monsieur Rochefort.” He is not surprised. “Can you please explain to me what happens to people when they taste vampire blood, or, as in my case, consume a signficant amount of it?”

He is embarrassed. “Hmmm… yes… as you well know… vampire blood is unfortunately used… recreationally… to heighten the senses...”

“So, what does this mean for me now?” she interrupts him. “I am certain I could hear the boys talking in the stables all the way across the courtyard. And I think I could smell them too!”

He nods. “This is to be expected. Senses are heightened. The effect does not last long. It will fade soon. Or at least, until you taste vampire blood again…”

“No thank you!” she retorts quickly.

He still looks subdued. “You may experience other strong sensations… More…intimate ones…” She flashes at him severely. “I apologize Mademoiselle. I truly do. I had no other recourse. You were bleeding to death. All this will fade away soon. However, there is something that will not … Because you drunk so much, you see, and all at once. I will be able to sense you and you will be able to call for me. No matter the distance between us, I will know if you are in danger and will be able find you.”

“So we are bound at the hip,” she says quietly. He is surprised she is not upset.

“In blood, certainly. Remember what they say about us? That vampires can hold a grudge forever? It is not true. What is true is that our blood remembers. Our blood never forgets. I am not sure how or why this happens….”

She looks perplexed. “So, does this mean I am now immune to your other powers, Monsieur? Glamoring, for instance?”

“Oh no, I am afraid Mademoiselle. You are very much susceptible to all our other powers, and that includes glamoring. You are just a human after all who had a little bit more vampire blood than she should.”

They have almost reached the Bonacieux house. She stops in the middle of the empty street and looks at him defiantly. “Alright then. Glamor me!”

“What? Certainly not!”

“Just do it!” she insists.

“Mademoiselle, here? In the middle of the street? This is not a game! Do you realize how dangerous it is for you? I am a very old vampire and…”

“Oh just do it, Monsieur and stop finding excuses.” She is reckless and she does not care. She is thoroughly enjoying the moment and his astonishment.

He accepts the challenge. His demeanor changes. His eyes focus on hers, his face becomes expressionless and his deep voice resonant. He speaks slowly and deliberately. “Do you hear me Mademoiselle? You will only hear my voice and nothing else, now. You will forget everything else around you…”

She is staring back at him, looking mesmerized, and whispering “yes… as you say…” and then she bursts into uncontrollable laughter. He steps back completely bewildered.

“This is not possible!”

She is laughing heartily, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My apologies… I hope you are not offended… oh…that ‘you will only hear my voice’, was truly mesmerizing…!” It feels as if the tension of the past few days is released in this fit of laughter. She calms down slowly.

“This is not possible,” he repeats. “How can this be possible?”

“Perhaps glamoring does not work with all of us hapless humans, Monsieur. Perhaps this interesting experiment challenges your inquisitive mind by proving you wrong.”

“I have never heard, read, or known of any human who cannot be influenced. This should not be possible. This cannot be possible. Unless… What are you? What are you…? Really?”

On a whim, not dissimilar to that which prompted her reckless challenge, she plants a quick kiss on his cheek. “Just a Musketeer, Monsieur, who is happy to forget all the ugly things that happened last night and thoroughly enjoys teasing you.” She hurries into the house, leaving him right there, speechless, standing in the middle of the street.


	6. The Labyrinth

_“Angels do not serve the Raven King._ _His ascension to the Throne of Rome, for he was never elected by a Papal Conclave, was taken as a blatant provocation against the Lands of Heaven.” (_ _John Segundus, A Biography of Paul Maximilien Baron du Vallon_ _de Bracieux de Pierrefonds and A History of the Revival of French Magic, 1849,_ Koninklijke Brill, Leiden.)

 

> _The Cathedral of Amiens stands as impressive as my father described it with gargoyles, chimaeras, and musician kings decorating the highest parts of its_ _façade_ _. I enter, as I know my father also did, a member of the royal guard, through the gate framed by the Last Judgment. I insisted he would tell me the story about the marble images of the damned and the horsemen on stormy nights when I was a boy. He would indulge me, tirelessly, always adding at the end the story of how he walked the Sacred Labyrinth on the Cathedral floor, reaching Jerusalem at its center. The damned and the horsemen are here still framing the central portal but the Sacred Labyrinth in the main nave is defaced as are other images of kings, and the fleur de lys insignia everywhere, lingering traces of the Revolution that changed my father’s world for ever._
> 
> _The Queen is a pious woman. She looks and sounds uncomfortable in her new royal status, which everyone knows she never cared for. She is surrounded by her ladies. Captain de Treville stands close behind her. Porthos looks uneasy and distracted. He has been this way since we arrived here, avoiding company and answering in monosyllables. The other men of the Musketeer guard noticed too. Perhaps he fought with his mistress back in Paris, some men suggested. But I think it is something else. Maybe it has to do with that older man I saw him meeting this morning at The Black Griffin Inn. I am sure Porthos saw me but he pretended not to. That is also not like Porthos._
> 
> _The Cathedral looks larger on the inside than on the outside. The shifting light from the stained glass windows wanders through columns, pillars, and sculptures. Ethereal patterns of light and shade animate their white marble surfaces. There is something else here. I am sure of it. The fragrance of lilies. Perhaps it is the incense? And a faint chant from somewhere in the deeper recesses of this vast sacred space. It is inviting and sounds familiar, this unworldly music. Perhaps it was a lullaby my mother sung to me. I think it whispers my name…_

D' Artagnan silently distances himself from the royal party. He walks backwards in the central nave and stops close to the fifth bay window. He stands enveloped in rose and white light. He is not sure how he knows that this is where the Sacred Labyrinth used to be. The floor is uneven, effaced, but in the shifting light he is certain he can see black and white lines forming a well-defined large hexagon. He realizes he stands in the middle. He stands on Jerusalem. And as he stares in awe, he witnesses words emerging on the white pathways of the Sacred Labyrinth. He can read these words as they appear and disappear in thin air.

 

> _My sword shall be the most powerful,_  
>  _My hand shall be the most steady,  
>  _ _My eyes shall see what others cannot see,  
>  _ _For I am pure of heart..._

"What are you standing here for? You are supposed to be with your regiment!" Captain de Treville's irritated voice snaps him out of the strange reverie. There is nothing around him now. The floor is gray and defaced. No simmering light, no wandering fragrance, nor any mystical music calling his name. Just the sounds of the pilgrims moving around in the church.

"I apologize Captain. I heard something...." He is not sure how to justify this lack of discipline, and his Captain's approval is what he aspires to most of all.

"Return to your position immediately!" The Captain has no time for idle excuses.  

The royal party moves out of the church, crossing again under the main gate. D' Artagnan has almost forgotten his strange vision, preoccupied as he is now, by how he has disappointed his Captain. But if he were less distracted he might have observed how the heads of the gargoyles and the kings turned a little as he passed under the gate. And how a marble chimaera disengaged itself from the ramparts flying away to the south. 


	7. Our Lady of the Crossroads

 

> _The_ _weapons that my enemies raised against me are venerated in Hell as holy relics;_   
>  _Plans that my enemies raised against me are preserved as holy texts;_   
>  _Blood that I shed upon ancient battlefields is scraped from the stained earth by Hell's sacristans and placed in a vessel of silver and ivory._
> 
> _(Prophecy of The Raven King, Lines 15-17)_

Athos knows there is no time to waste. The Captain's message, carefully phrased though it may be, intimates urgency. Aramis agrees. The facts, as far as they both can tell from their Captain's cryptic description, include some kind of attack against the Queen and her retinue instigated by the Lycian Brotherhood, the most powerful werewolf pack in France. Was d' Artagnan responsible? For it seems he was the target, not her Majesty. Whatever the reason, according to the Captain, in the ensuing combat at the steps of the Cathedral at Amiens, just as the royal company exited the church, the young man not only protected the lives of his comrades but singlehandedly saved the Queen's life.

There is more.

"I cannot put the rest on paper", writes the Captain, "but on this blessed day, here at Amiens, we have witnessed a future we could only hope for but never dared to imagine." The Captain's orders to Athos and Aramis are simple. Ride to Amiens immediately, join the company outside the city gates, and then continue with d'Artagnan and Porthos on their side as scouts, making sure the road back to Paris is safe, no members of the Brotherhood lurking in the forests and dark groves. Aramis packs enough silver bullets to fight a small army. "You can never be sure, although I bet I can take each one of these werewolves out with one bullet," she winks at Athos, who looks amused. "I have no doubt, my friend! But then if you kill the Lycians who will provide your dear landlord with silks and lace?" The Brotherhood controls the trade of fabrics and lace, and is headed by Monsieur Pelletier, who also runs one of the most powerful banks in France. 

It is early afternoon when they leave Paris. They ride fast towards Amiens, in torrential rain and a ferocious thunderstorm. The plan is to change horses at inns along the way without stopping. But now they are not only competing against time and fatigue. Their horses are spooked and it becomes increasingly difficult to control them.

"Athos, we must take shelter somewhere!" Aramis yells as her horse neighs in fear at the sight of lighting flashing in the darkened skies. "There was a convent close by before the Revolution," he consents, "follow me, it is not far." At the first crossroads they turn their horses off the main road. Aramis can see the outline of a bell tower in the rain. The gate is open. The place should be deserted since all monasteries and convents were dissolved during the Revolution. Both riders dismount, leading their horses through the gate but Aramis walks through it first. 

The pain is sharp, like a blade through her heart. It is so sharp she cannot breathe. She gasps for air. "Are you alright Aramis?" She nods, "I am fine." The pain recedes although it lingers, dull, a reminder of something that she now knows is very wrong. At the back of her mind a voice whispers, "You must leave!" It is a woman's voice. It is a voice she has never heard before.

A figure appears holding a large umbrella. It is a woman. "Welcome friends!" She is middle aged, with a child-like rosy-cheeked face and a pair of intelligent pale blue eyes. She is wearing something that looks like a nun's habit. 

"Madame, thank you. We thought this place was abandoned!" Athos is bemused. 

She hurries them in the shelter of the cloister and closes her umbrella. "What a terrible storm! You are correct, Monsieur. This place was abandoned until recently. We cannot call ourselves a convent yet, but following the example of Mother Barat whose schools are transforming France, we hope one day to be permitted our own community and school here, and in doing so, continue the history of this place." She smiles a coy, sweet smile, "Follow me my dears, you need some warm food and a good fire to dry yourselves! You can stay with us this night, or at least until the storm passes." 

Aramis, makes an effort to feel comfortable, but cannot. The voice she hears warning her to leave is not the voice of this woman. Despite the pain, radiating now through her back, all the way down to her legs, she makes an effort to focus on this woman's thoughts. There is nothing. She is silent, like Rochefort. But unlike Rochefort, there is nothing tranquil in the silence, only darkness. She touches Athos' hand. "Athos, we should not stay here.”  

"We have no choice until this storm passes," he whispers reassuringly. "You look worried, but there is nothing to worry about. You have your silver bullets, after all!"

They walk into a well-lit warm room with a large fireplace, a long wooden table and chairs. "Please, sit by the fire! I am Sister Mary. The other sisters will join us momentarily. They are all at prayer. So, you are the King's Musketeers? A Lady Musketeer too!" 

"Indeed, Sister," Athos smiles as he receives a glass of wine from her. "My name is Athos, and my companion here is Aramis." Sister Mary acknowledges them politely. "We will prepare rooms for you, in case you have to stay for the night. Ah, Sister Louise we have some travelers with us," she exclaims as a second, younger, woman enters the refectory. "Welcome friends," the woman bows. Unlike Sister Mary, this Sister Louise would have been a woman of exceptional beauty if she were not wearing a simple habit and did not have her red hair pulled back in a simple strict bun. She has the most striking pair of green eyes. Athos cannot help but remember another pair of green eyes, which he longs to see again. Aramis is unsettled. Her head is not buzzing with other people's thoughts as is usual when she finds herself in company. Except for Athos, she hears nothing at all. As if these two women are simply not present. Perhaps it is the pain she thinks, and that other persistent voice she cannot shirk that now calls her name "Aramis, Aramis, listen to me... you must..." 

Two more women enter the refectory. One is a young girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen. Angelic. Sister Eloise. The other woman is middle aged. Mother Henriette. She is striking. Majestic. August. She wears a key chain around her waist. There is no cross around her neck, but her habit is adorned with an antique golden pin showing three torches bound with a serpent. Strange for a nun, Aramis thinks, but then these are not real nuns, and this woman is clearly an old aristocrat. Perhaps it is a family heirloom. Mother Henriette insists that they remain for the night. Her eyes rest on Aramis. "Is your companion always this silent, Monsieur?" she asks Athos, who is equally perplexed. This is not like Aramis. "My friend is perhaps tired," he says. 

The storm rages outside. They can hear the rumbling thunder and the rain lashing against the windows. Mother Mary leads them to their rooms through the dark empty corridors of the old convent. She chats about how the place is empty and feels deserted now but how they hope to fill it with children attending their school. 

Aramis cannot focus on the nun's words although she tries. Suddenly, light from the storm flashes against the windows along the dark corridor. It is then, that Aramis sees a figure in the light, a woman, ethereal, transparent, and unaware of their presence. Her image is clear on the glass as if she is standing right next to them, although no one is really there. She is wearing a lavender-colored sleeveless shift and her long hair, which looks wet, falls to her waist. As she turns her head, she reveals a face Aramis knows too well. Her father kept a small portrait of this woman only here she now stands looking much younger. Anne of Austria!

"Aramis, what is wrong?" Athos has stopped, and shakes her softly urging her to move along.

The vision disappears.

"I thought I saw something," she hesitates, "it is nothing." 

Their rooms are side by side. Aramis is exhausted but refuses to sleep. None of this feels right and the dull pain all over her body is a constant reminder. Her eyes close inadvertently. She must stay awake. She forces herself to sit up. There is warm soft candlelight now, coming from the corridor. She opens her door and steps outside.

 

> _It is a quiet and warm summer night. A man sits under an open window, his head buried in his hands. He is wearing an old-fashioned Musketeer uniform. His leather jacket is thrown on the bench next to his pistol. He is in shirtsleeves, his arms naked below the elbows. A woman walks up to him and kneels at his feet. She is wearing the same lavender-colored sleeveless shift as the vision that Aramis saw reflected in the window. Anne! He looks up with a sigh.  He is weary. Distraught. There are tears in his eyes. She fondly removes a long curl of black hair from his brow with her fingers. "Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you, Aramis," she whispers, as his hand softly caresses the curve of her naked shoulder…_

The vision dissipates. Someone is shaking Aramis' bed. "Do not fall asleep, Aramis! Listen to my voice! You must leave! Save your friend!" The voice is louder now. Aramis wakes up. She fell asleep despite all her efforts. There is no one else in her room and the storm still rages outside. Athos must be asleep. She opens the door and walks into the dark corridor. She has no doubt which convent this used to be or what took place here. She has no doubt who the man in her dream was either. The man Anne of Austria loved most of all. The man whose name and heritage Aramis claims for herself, above all the Bourbon kings that came after him. 

But whose is the voice she hears warning her? "Who are you?" she asks in the dark. "Sister Hélène," the voice responds in her mind. "A friend. I died in the catacombs below. It was a long time ago. You must leave. Save your friend!"  The voice is muffled by something that sounds like music. It comes from somewhere at the end of the corridor. It is unusual and enchanting music, mournful and harmonious, but unlike any harmony Aramis has ever heard before. She follows the sound and pushes through a door, quietly, entering a gallery above a large paved room that was clearly a chapel once.

Sister Louise is sitting on an old bench in the room below. Her auburn hair is loose reaching the floor. She is playing the mournful tune on the strings of a harp that Aramis has only seen in paintings and on statues of ancient Greek gods and goddesses. Sister Louise moves slightly as she plays. It is only then that Aramis notices. Bright, sparkling, scales, green, the color of her eyes, cover the lower part of her body. Sister Louise has the body of a snake.

A door opens and someone else walks in the old chapel below. From her voice Aramis can tell she is Sister Mary. Only she looks nothing like her. The creature has a fleshy round pale face, with white long unruly curly hair. Aramis could swear the creature's eyes are red. "Sister Lamia," the creature hisses, "careful with your music tonight. The storm may not mask your mournful songs from our guests." 

"Do you seriously think they can hear us, Mormo?" replies the snake woman called Lamia. 

"They should not, but we must always be careful. We mixed mandragora in his wine. He should be pliant and willing enough when the time comes. That woman, on the other hand, should have been dead by now. I do not understand how it is possible that she is still alive. Mother Hecate placed that spell at the gate herself." Mormo the red-eyed demon stops short as if it hears something. "It is time, Sister Lamia." 

Aramis has seen and heard enough. She silently exits the room and walks back. Athos' door is closed. She opens it carefully. He is still here, sleeping. She pushes him softly. "Athos wake up! Athos please wake up!" He looks fast asleep." Athos please, open your eyes!" She can see his eyelids move slightly. "Aramis…" he whispers. She makes him sit up on the bed with great difficulty. "Open your eyes Athos, please try!" she cries. "Look at me! You have been drugged." His eyes are unfocused and he is confused. "Who…? Where…?" 

"We are at a ruined convent on the way to Amiens. These nuns are not what they seem. We need to leave now!" She pushes him to his feet and he makes an effort to stand but he is too weak. He collapses in her arms. She grasps him by the waist. "Walk with me!" she cries. It is not easy to walk, dragging him along like this, although he tries to remain awake. The pain all over Aramis' body is excruciating as she has to bear almost all his weight, but she is determined to save him.

They reach the cloister and then, finally, find themselves just a few meters from the gate. Their horses are standing right there, protected, in a shed. They both collapse in the pouring rain. The radiating pain makes Aramis’ chest feel so tight that she cannot breathe. Athos sits up, drenched, but looking more like himself. " Aramis," he cries, "what happened?" 

"You should be grateful for our hospitality, Monsieur and you seem not to be so." It is Mother Henriette, the woman they later called Mother Hecate. She blocks the gate, untouched by the rain, and addresses Athos in an austere, penetrating, voice. "We fulfilled our part, by taking you in, but now I expect you to fulfill your duty to my beautiful daughter, Empusa." As Mother Hecate speaks the young angelic nun they had introduced as Sister Eloise appears behind her mother. She is no longer wearing a habit. Her face is as angelic as before but the rest of her body looks like that of an animal with one leg hoofed and the other longer and insect-like.

Mother Hecate looks proud. "My beautiful Empusa adores the blood of sleeping young men. Once she quenches her thirst, she feasts on their flesh. After she bears their sweet children my beloved Mormo and my sister Lamia savor them." The red-eyed creature called Mormo, and Lamia, the snake demon, are now standing next to Hecate, blocking the gate alongside her. 

Aramis’ pistol is loaded with a silver bullet. Perhaps silver bullets work against these ancient demons as they work against werewolves. She aims right between the red eyes of Mormo and shoots. The creature shrieks and falls back dazed. Aramis draws her sword. "You will not touch him!” 

"You are a powerful little thing, whatever you are," sneers Hecate. "You should have been dead by now and you are not. But we can remedy that." She picks one of the keys hanging around her waist and turns it in the air, as if she were locking an invisible door. The pain in Aramis' chest returns, only sharper. She gasps for air and falls to her knees. And then, nothing. Darkness. 

Captain de Treville and his Musketeers arrive in Paris the next evening. He enters the Garrison with Porthos and d'Artagnan riding at his side. "Is Athos here?" he asks a guard as soon as he dismounts. He sounds irritated and concerned at the same time. "Captain, you are back!", cries a voice from the gallery above. 

"Athos, what happened? Why are you still here? Did you not receive my message?" 

"We did Captain...." Athos' face is haggard and pale. "Something happened. Before anything though I should tell you Rochefort, the vampire, is here. I invited him in the Garrison. He saved our lives...."

Now Monsieur de Treville forces himself to ask the question he dared not ask before. "What about Aramis?"

"Captain, Aramis is dying..." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for BBC Musketeer purists, with apologies.  
> The series is rather vague about the exact name and location of the monastery in "Knight Takes Queen". Later it is mentioned as "eaux de bourbonne" which would make sense since there are thermal springs at that area of France. However no specific monastery or convent exists which could work for the narrative here since this entire region lies to the opposite direction of Amiens (and for narrative reasons Amiens is important.) I hope readers can overcome this discrepancy. 
> 
> The chapter is inspired by Greek Mythology.


	8. All The Unseen Things

_Durme durme, mi alma donzella  
_ _Durme durme, sin ansia y dolor._

_(Anonymous, Ladino Lullaby, “Sleep Beautiful Maiden”)_ (1)

 

"In my office, immediately!" orders de Treville. 

Athos stands in front of his Captain and two comrades, recounting what happened on the road to Amiens the night before. Parts feel like a dream, or a nightmare, other parts he cannot connect, and there are parts he cannot remember. His narrative is military and direct. But as he speaks, at the back of his mind he begins to question every single one of his decisions. When did he fail Aramis? Why did he not listen? Why did he refuse to see? He experiences an old familiar feeling. He has lived with it since the death of his father. Guilt. "She did it. That creature," his mother had wept after his father’s funeral. She never called her “your wife”, not once. As if Athos had never been married in his mother’s eyes. He had never before seen his mother weeping. He knew the blame was all his of course. And now, the blame is his once more. 

"And the vampire?" Monsieur de Treville inquires without emotion as if he is receiving the routine daily Garrison report and the death of a Musketeer or the presence of a vampire in the Garrison are ordinary things. Is that kind of detachment what years of military training and wars look like, d' Artagnan wonders. It has only been a few weeks, but to the young man it feels as if the small world he had built here in Paris, with his new comrades, has come crushing down. It was only a day ago that he was part of something extraordinary at the steps of the Cathedral at Amiens. When did it all change?

"Rochefort showed up out of nowhere, Captain," says Athos. "I don't know how he knew where to find us or why he helped us. I cannot even describe to you what happened after he attacked those demons. All I remember is that we were all back here, at the gate of the Garrison. He could not cross our gate so I invited him in. We carried Aramis to my room, upstairs. He tried to..." Athos' voice falters. He promised Rochefort not to reveal the details of how he tried to bring Aramis back. "He tried hard, Captain. It was impossible to wake her up…"

"Rochefort is an admirable man, Captain," Porthos interjects. “I know him well.”

A man? He is not a man! D' Artagnan's whole being is repelled by the idea of a vampire in the Garrison! A vampire, sitting now close to Aramis. His entire life he despised them, all those Others. His mother's death and his father’s murder is why they all deserve to be shunned. Indiscriminately. Rochefort, in particular! He knows the name Rochefort all too well. He knows all about the man this hideous creature used to be, and the death and anguish that man had sown in real life. He knows too about the fateful sword thrust with which his ancestor, the Great d’ Artagnan, ended Rochefort's human life in Queen Anne’s antechamber. But d’ Artagnan says nothing and hopes he does not have to encounter that monster even for a single moment. 

But inevitably he does. Rochefort, the vampire, stands in Athos' room next to the bed. He looks distraught, his eyes lined with blood. Do vampires cry? They say that they cry tears of blood since blood is what they are made of. D' Artagnan expected to feel disgust at the sight of him. To his surprise, he feels compassion, sadness, and a strange affinity. Remember who he was once and what he is now, he tells himself, trying to avoid looking at the creature. There is something else in this room. The air is heavy and there is an overpowering smell of something nauseatingly sweet, like the smell of rotting flowers. And from somewhere d’ Artagnan is certain he can hear the sound of chimes. It is clear however that no one notices anything, so d' Artagnan remains silent once more. 

Captain deTreville and Porthos approach the bed. "It is bad, very bad," Rochefort whispers. "Was she injured?" the Captain asks Athos. "There are no injuries, Captain. No wounds. The surgeon was here immediately. He cannot find any physical ailment. There is no fever and no infection. Nothing. But she is in pain and cannot breathe. We can barely feel her pulse. Captain, she is dying."

"It is a spell then," Porthos exclaims. "From your story, it must be. Only what kind of spell, I could not tell you. But I know a man who can..."

Monsieur de Treville looks alarmed. "Porthos, you must be careful. Especially after what happened at Amiens. I suspect the Raven King has spies on you now everywhere." 

"And sacrifice a friend's life for my safety, Captain?" Porthos scoffs. “One for All and All for One, is that not our Musketeer oath? We need to get Monsieur Segundus here immediately. He is the only one who knows about spells besides John Childermass. Remember he witnessed the muffling spells suffered both by Lady Pole and Stephen Black. He alone could see the red and white roses! I will make sure he is protected on his way here. Goodness, young man! You look as if you are about to faint." Porthos utters as his gaze falls on d' Artagnan. The boy looks pale and unsteady. He slowly approaches the bed attempting to hold onto a post. That is when he sees Aramis for the first time. He steps back terrified.

"Captain, Athos, Porthos!" he cries. "Can you not see what is happening to Aramis?" For Aramis is in fact gravely injured, bleeding to death right there on that bed, her entire body caught in a tangle of spiked vines, a large thorn piercing her heart. 

Everyone falls silent. "What is it you see my young friend?" Porthos speaks softly and affectionately, as if he is addressing a small child. "Tell us what it is you see. For only the truly gifted can see a spell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Sleep, sleep beautiful maiden  
> Sleep, sleep free of worry and pain.


	9. A Little Death

_“Queen Mab of Arcadia, wife of King Oberon, did not welcome the foundling, John Uskglass, [The Raven King] and objected to having him anywhere in the Kingdom or taught Faerie Magic. The Queen is a sorceress herself, with powers greater than those of her consort, in the sense that she combines the elements in completely different ways but also in the sense that he is utterly enchanted by her and indulges her every whim, of which she has many.”_ _(Alexandre Dumas, Impressions of Travel in Arcadia and The Islands of the Great Circle in Faerie, 1849,_ _Éditions Plon, Paris.)_

 

Aramis opens her eyes in a familiar room. It is one of the Garrison quarters. Athos' room. She was here once with Porthos, a long time ago. A stray bullet had injured Athos, and they had to help him to his bed. Still, something is not altogether right. Things are not where they should be. The window is at the opposite side. It should have been facing west, into the courtyard. The door also…

"Hello! Is anyone here?" 

No sounds. No answer. Silence.

"Athos? Porthos? D' Artagnan?...Captain!"

Her voice echoes in the deafening silence....

She sits on the bed trying to make sense of this place. Maybe they are all at the Palais Royale. Maybe something happened. But what is she doing in Athos' room? Why is she here alone? 

She realizes she does not know. What is the last thing you remember, she asks herself. Riding in a storm to Amiens with Athos. Perhaps she fell from her horse. Perhaps she injured her head and cannot remember. But her head does not ache. In fact, she feels absolutely fine. No pain, no injury, not even a scratch. 

And then she sees… There, across the bed, on the wall, over a basin for washing that should have been on the exact opposite side of the room, inside a large old mirror. She sees the room, as it should have been, the bed, the door, and the window at their correct positions. She sees them all. The Captain is standing on one side of the bed. Athos sits by the other side looking devastated. Someone is in that bed but she cannot tell who from this distance. D' Artagnan stands at the foot of the bed, looking as if he is about to faint. Porthos is right behind him, trying to steady his young friend. Rochefort is there too, pacing up and down. 

Why are they not here with her? Where _is_ here?

Maybe she is dreaming. Maybe this is a vision of some kind. She touches the mirror with her hand. It is solid. Cold.

"Athos!" He is the one closer. "Athos! I am here! I am right here! On the other side of this mirror! Please hear me!" Her voice becomes more desperate. "Jacques! Can you hear me! You promised you would always hear me!" "Captain! Porthos!" "D' Artagnan!"...."Someone!" Her voice breaks. She panics. Her eyes fill with tears although she tries very hard not to cry. "I want to wake up! This is a horrible nightmare!" She sits on the bed panting. Her breath is the only thing she can hear in this silence. 

"Focus your mind," she tells herself. She should be able to hear the thoughts of everyone in the Garrison and beyond. That constant buzzing she has learned to suppress since she was a child. If she focuses enough she can hear the thoughts of her friends. Athos, she tells herself. Athos! He would be the easiest to reach. The most reticent person she has ever met, but the one whose thoughts she always finds so difficult to keep at bay. She focuses looking at Athos' reflection in the mirror. Nothing. In vain she tries every single one of the others.

What about Rochefort? She cannot hear vampires. But she is desperate and nothing about this nightmare makes sense. She focuses again. "I was too late," whispers a man’s voice. She can hear Rochefort! "Too late for what?" she cries.

A slight creaking noise breaks the silence. The door of this room is now open. There is no breeze, no draft, just blinding sunlight coming from outside. Something urges her to walk through. This should have taken her onto the gallery right above the Garrison courtyard. Instead, she finds herself in the middle of a vast garden, the door to Athos' room fading to nothing behind her. It is a bright sunny day, not a cloud in the deep blue sky. It feels like early spring. She can see beautifully trimmed rose bushes, and parterres with flowers in colors she had no idea existed in nature. There are well shaped paths, and far in the distance she can see a dense oak forest. There are sounds everywhere now where there was silence before, bird songs, the buzzing of insects, and somewhere peacocks calling. A pleasant breeze carries the fragrances of lilacs and roses and the calming sound of streams and water fountains.

The path takes her further into the garden. She hears movement. Someone is scraping the earth. A man is kneeling with his back turned. He is wearing an enormous straw hat. He seems too absorbed in his gardening to take any notice of her. She coughs politely. "Excuse me, Monsieur…"

She waits.

"Monsieur, I beg your pardon...?"

"Ah, there you are at last," cries the man as he turns, "you are late!" He has a pleasant face, and a large well-trimmed gray beard that reminds her of portraits from the era of Louis XIII. His gray hair aside, his age is impossible to determine. 

"Hold this, my dear!" he says as he stands up dusting himself. He hands her a basket full of bulbs. "I want to have white lilies all around these rose bushes. I love how their color brings out the pink of the roses! But your dear mother disagrees. Your dear mother always disagrees." 

"Pardon me, Monsieur... Who?"

"Oh yes! Oh my dear! Look at us, both!" He laughs loudly. "Are we not a spectacle? And when shall we prepare for this ball, eh? We have to hurry back before we are discovered!"

"Excuse me Monsieur, you may be mistaken...." 

He stands still for a moment, looking thoughtful first and then somewhat offended. "You think? Absolutely not! I am never mistaken! Oh dear, he adds, "I fear we have been discovered!" 

Indeed, she can hear voices and hurried footsteps from the other side of the path. The two courtiers who appear are definitely not human, if their pointed ears are any indication. But they are the most peculiar, elegant, and handsome individuals Aramis has ever seen. They wear elaborate wigs reminiscent of the days of her grandmother, Marie Antoinette, but the cut of their doublets and the preponderance of lace and ribbons remind her of portraits from the court of the Great Louis. The two gentlemen are identical, despite slight differences in their costumes and the color of their wigs: one is purple and the other is pink. They bow deeply to the man with the straw hat, light on their feet, like ballet dancers. 

"Your Majesty!"

The man with the straw hat assumes an aloof posture as he proclaims, "Yes, yes, yes! I know. I am on my way! I did not forget the ball!" He wipes his hands on his shirt and marches off majestically, leaving Aramis confused, basket still in her hands, standing in front of the two courtiers who are bowed to the ground. 

"Excuse me, Messieurs…?" She hesitates, after an awkward silence. 

"Oh dear, oh dear!" cries one of the two gentlemen as he looks up, seemingly seeing Aramis for the first time. 

"Oh, Darius, this is unforgivable! Unforgivable!" 

The other gentleman now also looks up. 

"Oh Darius, indeed!"

They both bow deeper this time. "Most Kind Royal Highness!" they say now in a single voice, "forgive your loyal servants. Oh such shame! Such shame! We deserve to be executed for being so neglectful to your Royal Highness!"

"Yes! You two deserve to be hanged and quartered again!” cries a sonorous woman's voice. The two poor souls fall to their knees. "This is scandalous my lords!" the voice continues as a lady approaches followed by what seems to be a huge entourage of people wearing all kinds of colorful costumes and wigs. She is a tall impressive lady, dressed in a green costume that is more theatrical than anything Aramis has ever seen at court or at the opera or anywhere else for that matter. Like the man with the straw hat she too is of an age impossible to determine. 

"No, no...." Aramis interjects, as the lady berates the two courtiers. "These two gentlemen have done nothing at all, Madame! I fear there may be some mistake!"

"Oh my dear, do not worry about such trivial matters. Darius the Tall and Darius the Short are executed all the time," says the lady. "However, worrying, especially about trivial matters, makes cheeks pale and we do not want that, do we?"

"Madame, if I may..." Aramis hesitates, leaving the basket on the ground and curtsying. "Who is it I have the honor of addressing?"

"Your dear Lady Mother, of course," says the lady as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. And taking Aramis by the arm, she gently pushes her ahead of the multitude of people. "Oh my dear, what a mess today. Look at the state of you! We have a ball in just a few hours and the guests are arriving. Your dressmaker has been waiting all morning. We must hurry!"

"I think I am dreaming," whispers Aramis.

"Oh nonsense," laughs the lady, "you are not dreaming at all, my darling girl. It was just a little death. Nothing to worry about at all. Now your hair is something we should definitely worry about!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faerie (lands, peoples, etc.): all based on the extensive notes/references provided by Susanna Clarke. Additional names, toponyms, etc. were added as required. The "Faerie mythology" of this story is based on Susanna Clarke's novel.


	10. A Time for Magic

_His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;_  
_On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;_  
_From underneath his helmet flow'd  
_ _His coal-black curls as on he rode…_

_(Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott, 1832)_

Mr. Segundus reads the message he has just received. 

 

 

 

> _"Dear Monsieur Segundus,  
>  It would be an honor to meet with such an esteemed scholar and friend of Madame Ancelot. Please join me for dinner at the Musketeer Garrison this evening. One of my Musketeers will escort you. _
> 
> _Jean-Armand_ _de Treville_
> 
> _Captain of the King’s Musketeers_

Mr. Segundus knows well this message is not what it appears to be. Why would Monsieur de Treville, a military man, not known for frequenting Madame Ancelot's salon or any other fashionable Parisian circles, write to him in this manner? 

When he met with Porthos at Amiens they agreed that any correspondence between them would have to be staged as a casual social interaction, a dinner invitation, a night at the opera, and the like. After what happened at Madame Ancelot's soirée in the presence of Minister Guizot, both gentlemen knew they would be of interest to agents of the Raven King. They met at an inn called The Black Griffin at Amiens, early in the morning. A few hours later, Porthos would make history at the steps of the Cathedral. After that, Mr. Segundus has no doubt they are both being watched closely.

Since the arrival of the Raven King, The King's Magic is the only Magic practiced and only by his closest allies. Sorcerers, like John Childermass, and perhaps Vinculus the street magician, whose skin was covered with the "Prophecy of The Raven King." After the King’s arrival, Vinculus became the canvas for the "King's New Prophecy." This is the very same Vinculus who is also said to have composed the so-called "Incantation of the Raven King."

The "King's New Prophecy" has never been deciphered and no one knows exactly what it predicts although all kinds of rumors circulate about it. The learned gentlemen of the Society of Magicians at York had met with Vinculus and looked upon the strange new markings on his body only once. After that first encounter however, the King's absolute rule over Magic prohibited any further encounters or study. Vinculus vanished. Some say the King keeps him in his Vatican palace, providing for his every need. 

Unlike the New Prophecy, the "Incantation of the Raven King" has been disseminated throughout this world, and rumor has it, to every other world between Heaven and Hell. It is sung at taverns, recited by school children, and translated in every language. It goes like this: 

 

 

 

> _He reached out His Hand;_  
>  Now the world is His.  
>  He reached out his hand;  
>  Lord of the Three Kingdoms  (1)  
>  Who now rules the world. 
> 
> _The rain made a door for Him and He passed through it,_  
>  His enemies lie dying, pierced through the heart,  
>  He came to them in the midst of storms,  
>  He came to them in the voice of thunder,   
>  The wind called His Name so His enemies shrunk in fear,  
>  Lord of the World who commands the elements. 
> 
> _His Magic is written upon the skies,_  
>  His enemies tremble, fleeing like a flock of starlings,   
>  He came to them on the wings of eagles,   
>  He came to them on the claws of chimaeras,   
>  The ravens carried His Message so His enemies shall be no more,  
>  Lord of the World who commands the beasts of the air.
> 
> _His Magic marks the faces of mountains,_  
>  His enemies freeze, their blood stopt in their veins,   
>  He came to them as howling wolves,  
>  He came to them as hissing snakes,   
>  The sphinx repeated His Riddle so His enemies vanish in their ignorance,  
>  Lord of the World who commands the beasts of the earth. 
> 
> _He sits upon His Sacred Throne,_  
>  And Few may gaze upon Him in awe,   
>  He speaks to them in the voice of sirens,   
>  He speaks to them in the words of waves,   
>  The mermaids carry His Crown so His enemies shall drown in tears,   
>  Lord of the World who commands the beasts of the sea.

Mr. Segundus has always felt this incantation is a clever fabrication by the Raven King and his innermost circle. The text itself corresponds to the text of the old "Prophecy of The Raven King" in ways that may be described as calculated and deliberate. It reeks of the expediency and design of politics, rather than the pure inspiration of Magic. Besides, Vinculus could not even read, let alone write, at least back when Mr. Segundus had met him. He was a drunk, a filthy street magician with a flair for the dramatic and a body covered with unintelligible markings. He was ignorant even of his own powers. For all anyone knows, Vinculus may not even be alive. After the events at Amiens, Mr. Segundus is certain that the Incantation is a mere ploy, clever propaganda, meant to obscure actual predictions of the "New Prophecy of the Raven King", which the King and his Circle find threatening, or even dangerous. Mr. Segundus suspects the New Prophecy is in fact not really what the King would have hoped for and that is why he has made such an effort to keep it a secret.

Mr. Segundus explained all this and more to Monsieur du Vallon that morning at Amiens. Monsieur du Vallon listened carefully and then recounted how since childhood he could hear Magic in his head, like fragments of music. How he practiced it in secret, with no guidance or mentor, not daring to mention it to his loving parents. “I am French you see, Monsieur. I was raised to value Reason and our Nation above all else. I was raised to think that Magic belongs to the decayed world of the Old Regime, which our courageous ancestors overturned after many sacrifices.  I read Monsieur Garinet’s, “History of French Magic,” (2) where he argues this very point. And even though now I find Dr. Calmet’s treatises on vampires, angels, and demons (3) too invested in the beliefs of the Old Regime and his misidentification of fairies as “demons” troubling, as a child I was inevitably influenced by his arguments; enough to be weary of Magic and all its advocates. Besides, Gilles de Rais (4)  affords us, the French, a convenient historical example of its corrupting and immoral power. Thus, we dismiss our ancient traditions of Magic because to us they represent everything we stand against, including, I am afraid, the English. But I have always wondered if this isn’t too simplistic. When Magic sought me out, for I am convinced I am nothing but a vessel Monsieur, I was ashamed at first. I thought I was betraying my country and my family. My spells were naïve. A man of your knowledge and experience would think of them as pure nonsense. But to me, these childish compositions were a secret joy. How could making book pages turn by themselves harm anyone? How could changing the taste of my tea be treason? So I listened to the whisperings of Magic and made my own way. Suddenly, entire worlds opened up to me. Infinite possibilities. I wanted to know everything. Read everything. I realized soon there was little available. And then Mr. Strange’s book was published. I was fourteen years old in 1816. My parents kept a house that was always brimming with intellectuals, explorers, artists, and radicals. Someone must have brought the book that summer, for I found it thrown open on a chair in our music room. I devoured it. Read it in one sitting. And then it disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived. But somehow I still remember a good part of it. Magic is like music, Monsieur. Once you hear a perfect composition you carry it in your soul forever.”

Mr. Segundus was deeply touched. Until recently, his countrymen saw the French as oppressors and deadly enemies. Despite how often he travels to France now, despite the warmth with which he is received, he is aware that he retains some of that old suspicion and a lingering sense of animosity. As he listened to Monsieur du Vallon’s extraordinary confession however, all that dispersed. For Magic is more powerful than borders and wars. Mr. Segundus felt young and full of excitement, just like the day he met Mr. Strange at Shadow House. “Monsieur du Vallon,” he said, “I wish you could have met Mr. Strange. What a marvelous pupil you would have made!”

“Indeed Monsieur Segundus. It was a youthful dream of mine. But I knew even then that a great many things divided us, besides the countries of our birth. For I must admit that the Magic Monsieur Strange described, not just his own innovations, but those ancient English elements that take us back to a time even before the Raven King, all the way back to Merlin, using fairy servants for instance, is not the kind of Magic that I am given. Still, I should have loved to debate Magic with him! French Magic meeting English Magic with the sole purpose of study and improvement. Would that not be glorious?"

They shook hands cordially that morning at Amiens, and promised to meet again secretly in Paris, so that Mr. Segundus might share with Monsieur du Vallon all his notes from Mr. Strange's biography. Only a few hours later, Monsieur du Vallon would stun the gathered crowds, the guards, the courtiers, and the Queen of the French with the most elegant and original act of Magic Mr. Segundus has ever seen, heard, or read about.

Mr. Segundus walks to the door of his rooms to find a young Musketeer waiting as Monsieur de Treville promised in his message. He saw this Musketeer once before, it occurs to him, that same day at Amiens, fighting side by side with Monsieur du Vallon. He was enveloped in a bright white light and Mr. Segundus attributed it to his sword and weapons gleaming in the sun. Now that he sees the young man again, he realizes that this is not so. Mr. Segundus may not be a powerful or practicing magician but he can see spells and recognizes the gift of Magic in others. He senses it immediately. A bright glow, a faint fragrance of lilies, and distant music that sounds like a chant. This young man is extraordinary, enveloped in a kind of Magic that Mr. Segundus knows only from books about ancient knights. 

"Please, Monsieur Segundus," says the young Musketeer with a polite bow. "Porthos sends me. We need your help urgently. Our friend Aramis is dying and it must be a spell of some kind."

"And you can see it young man, can you not? The spell...?”

The young man nods. "Yes, Monsieur. Yes, I can. I see everything." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Raven King (John Uskglass) is known as ruler of the Three Kingdoms. The first is northern England. The other two are called "the King's Other Lands". One is part of Faerie and the other is supposed to be a country on the far side of Hell, sometimes called "The Bitter Lands" (Susanna Clarke, Page 269, note 2.)
> 
> (2) Jules Garinet (1797-1877) was a lawyer at the Royal Court of Paris, a historian and a writer. In his youth he published extensively against monarchy and clergy including his “History of French Magic” (1818, republished several times.)
> 
> (3) Antoine Augustin Calmet, (26 February 1672 – 25 October 1757), was a Benedictine monk. In 1746 he wrote the first edition of his Dissertations sur les apparitions des anges, des démons et des esprits, et sur les revenants et vampires de Hongrie, de Bohême, de Moravie et de Silésie. Although very critical of him, Voltaire consulted his work, especially in the Dictionnaire philosophique. 
> 
> (4) Gilles de Rais (prob. c. September 1405 – 26 October 1440,) was a knight, executed as a serial killer of children. He was also accused of practicing the dark arts and alchemy.


	11. Revelations

_That woe is me, poor child for thee_  
_And ever mourn and may_  
_For thy parting neither say nor sing  
_ _Bye bye, lully lullay (1)_

_(Edited by Robert Coo 1534?, “Conventy Carol”)_

The Raven King sits in the shadow although the room is well lit through large windows opening to a private courtyard below. It is bright and warm, spring having arrived earlier than usual this year in Italy. Some say it is the King's Magic that has kept the winters warm and the days longer since He arrived in Rome. After all it was the Raven King who once banished Winter from Northern England for four years. 

"Most Holy Lord, King, and Emperor, Councilor Childermass is here," announces a young secretary opening the door and bowing respectfully. The secretary is dressed in a long black robe. He is neither a monk nor a priest but looks like one. He is one of the many aspiring followers of the Raven King who have joined him from all his lands and beyond, once the King established himself in Vatican City. But for his pointed ears concealed under a cap, and his hoofed feet under the long black robe, this young Bacchus would easily pass for a human. 

Mr. John Childermass, once the servant of Mr. Norrell, and now one of the most powerful magicians in the Raven King's inner circle of councilors, walks in the room. "Most Holy Lord, King, and Emperor! I am here as you demanded." The King nods in the shadow, beckoning him closer while the young secretary withdraws closing the door behind him. 

"He is safe, Lord. He is back in Paris, " says Childermass. 

"We must be vigilant, Childermass," says the King. His voice is solemn. He weighs every word before he speaks, as if his words are too valuable to be wasted on anything extraneous. 

"Hecate and her daughters claim they did not know who it was they ensnared. We should keep in mind, that our alliance with her country and the other Kingdoms of Hell beyond Bitter Lands is tentative at best, Lord." 

"We granted her that ruined monastery in France as we have granted others of her despicable kind ruined monasteries all over that faithless country. It was our generous reward to the Kingdoms of Hell for lending us troops to subdue the vampire revolt led by that agitator Rochefort and his followers. Hecate and her demons must be punished severely no matter the cost. This kind of treason will not be tolerated."

"Indeed, Lord. All ruins belong to Your Omnipresent Grace to give away as you please. And those demons could not have missed the signs. I don't believe for a moment they did not know whom they captured. Had their plan succeeded, the repercussions would have been unthinkable both here and in the Other Lands. They must be punished for their treason. As for the rebel Rochefort, it was he who intervened in the end, Lord."

There is a moment of silence.

"How is that possible, Childermass? Can he know?”

"I daresay he does not, Lord. We have no evidence that he knows anything at all. A mere coincidence. Our spies tell me that Rochefort is connected to the woman Musketeer. As far as any of us can piece it together, that is. She was the one caught in Hecate's spell..."

"The woman Musketeer?" the King is angry. "Never speak of her in this manner, servant!"

Childermass falls to his knees, contrite. "Forgive me, Merciful Lord!" 

"She is to be respected and called by all her rightful names and titles. So she is connected to that rebel vampire, you say?"

"Quite the irony, Lord" whispers Childermass in an attempt to lighten the conversation. "Although I doubt Queen Mab or King Oberon would appreciate it. Vampires have been their deadliest enemies in all of history, harvesting fairy blood thinking it would make them walk in the daylight, the stupid blood-lusting fools." Poor Childermass of course is terrified to say what he is really thinking. That this otherwise unfathomable and unnatural bond between Aramis and Rochefort could be more than just coincidence and irony. That it is the New Prophecy being fulfilled. 

"Do not fear the Prophecy Childermass," says the King, voicing his Councilor's innermost thoughts. “Prophecies are notoriously vague. And the vampire Rochefort shall be dealt with. Guizot assures me of it. I despise the French since they betrayed me with the Scots and the Fairies of the Seely Courts. However, Guizot is a vampire more loyal to Lilith than to that ridiculous puppet called King of the French, and he depends on us for whatever little power he thinks he now has. In the end all our enemies will be crushed. Remember prophecies can be whatever we want to make of them. So, did Hecate’s spell kill her?"

"We don't know. It should. Hecate's spells are deadly. But the French Magician seems to have secretly invited Mr. Segundus to their Musketeer Garrison. So perhaps, not yet..."

The King is pensive. "Queen Mab would never allow anything to happen to her only daughter, Childermass. As we will not allow anything to happen to our only son. We both went to great lengths to protect our children already and to great cost. For no matter our differences we adore our children and mourn their absence.”

"His Royal Highness, the Prince, shall be protected Lord, as he has been since those dreadful days of the Tumbling of Innocents. According to our agents, Lilith’s daughter keeps him distracted. We keep a close eye on her. She is not as clever as she thinks she is. She is convinced he is the pure knight of the prophecy and that he will redeem her somehow. She hopes to walk in the light of the sun one day!”

“They all aspire to that, don’t they? All the vampire vermin. Except for that agitator, Rochefort. I can see why Lilith fears him so. Walking in the sunlight is an aspiration considerably less dangerous than the right of free will. Make sure that slut, Lilith’s daughter, knows that we know all about her. Not about the poor sick widow that was turned during the Plague of London as she maintains, but about Cardinal Richelieu’s paid assassin. For that is who she really was. Remind her of the name Milady de Winter and how that name might not sit well with her pure knight should he accidentally find out. That will keep her from becoming too clever or too demanding. What about Lilith? Can we trust her still?”

“I believe we can, for the moment, Lord. She needs us now to protect her throne from radicals like Rochefort and his followers, but she will betray us if a truce with Hecate or some of the other Kingdoms of Hell becomes possible. We must proceed carefully. King Oberon’s troops have secured the southern border to Bitter Lands, and we know that Stephen Black, the King of Lost Hope, is one of King Oberon’s most loyal allies.”

"Our new secretary, the one who announced you, is both ambitious and thorough, Childermass. We shall send him to reassure Lilith of our ongoing support. Perhaps offer her a gift of some kind. Rochefort’s head would make a great gift, especially if we play our cards right. Now, tell us more about the French Magician and the events at Amiens. And about that Gascon boy", says the King. "That boy interests us greatly Childermass, for he may be the one we have been seeking all this time." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1): For BBC Musketeer fans: this is the lullaby that Agnes sings to her son and Aramis learns from her. He sings the same lullaby to his son (Louis).


	12. Seely Court of Elphaim

 

 

_The flower that smiles to-day_  
_To-morrow dies;_  
_All that we wish to stay_  
_Tempts and then flies._  
_What is this world's delight?_  
_Lightning that mocks the night,_  
_Brief even as bright._  
_(Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mutability, The Poetic Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1839)_

"This will not do, Arethusa. We need more ribbons!" Queen Mab is not pleased. Aramis has been standing for sometime now surrounded by a bevy of court ladies all helping her with different pieces of her clothing. These are the most beautiful and elegant women Aramis has ever seen. The court of the Queen of the French and the ladies of the English Queen, for she had also seen those ladies once at a state visit, look shabby in comparison. Nothing she has ever seen equals the colorful, luxurious fabrics, the satins, the silks and velvets, the abundance of fine woven lace, the rubies, the sapphires, and the pearls of the ladies in this court. Everything here is opulent, exquisite, attended to the minutest detail. 

She cannot believe that the image in the large gold mirror is that of herself. The bodice of her elaborate pale rose dress is trimmed with gold thread and minuscule pearls are sewn on it in the shape of jasmine flowers. It does not look like any dress she has ever seen, in cut and fabric alike. It is theatrical and ethereal at the same time. Her hair is braided with silk ribbons and long black curls frame her face. She refused to wear a wig although the lady called Arethusa insisted. Arethusa is a nymph, she was told, and in charge of Aramis’ household, which seems to be very large. Indeed, Aramis cannot even tell how many ladies exactly belong to her retinue. It seems that every few minutes or so another lady enters holding ribbons, or a box of jewelry, or a pair of gloves for Aramis to try on, and is introduced as part of her court: here is Lady Eolande Duchess of The Silent Waters, and this is Lady Brucie Countess of The Nameless Valley, and so on and so on....

Queen Mab is still not pleased and she clearly would have preferred a wig. She nods condescendingly, stepping back: “Quam calamitas!” she exclaims, and Aramis recalls she had heard once that fairies prefer to speak Latin. "I suppose we have to be content with this arrangement for today. But it will not do at all my dear girl. You are the royal princess of Arcadia not some attendant from those pitiable gatherings humans call royal courts. Orders have already been sent out for the Honorable Mr. Zephaniah Capillamentus to be here in the morning with a selection of his new hairpieces." The ladies welcome this news with excitement. "Mr. Capillamentus is the best in all Arcadia, perhaps all Faerie although his younger brother, the Honorable Mr. Cornelius Capillamentus, claims the same for himself within the Kingdom of Dense Fog. Personally, I cannot see the difference, Your Royal Highness," whispers Arethusa to Aramis who nods, as if she understands who these people are or where they come from. 

She finds herself next escorted through long and spacious corridors, lined with gold ornaments and marble statues. “Her Royal Highness, Phoebe, Tanaquil, Gloriana of Elphaim, Queen of Clarion and the Islands of Dawn, Ruler of the Faraway Caves, Lady of the Three Moons, Mistress of the Golden Stags!” cries a solemn voice as she enters a hall the size of which she cannot even grasp. The center is occupied by an almond tree, its long branches covered in tender white blossoms, soaring above a floor made of shining black marble. Crystal chandeliers glimmer brightly suspended in the air by chains made of living, blue butterflies. The room is crowded with a multitude of courtiers whirling to the sound of music, which wafts through the hall intermingling with the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. She feels dazed.

Everyone stands still as she enters. The music stops although the scents linger. “My dearest child! Welcome home!” cries a sonorous voice and Aramis realizes that somehow, there is now an end to this hall and at the very top of it, there is a tall platform carved in the trunk of an ancient olive tree and shaded by a canopy of laurels. Right there, on the platform, with his hands ready to embrace her is the man with the straw hat she met when she first arrived. He now wears a costume that makes him shine like the sun, adorned with diamonds and layers upon layers of lace. Queen Mab stands next to him, beaming. She is wearing a dress woven entirely from golden thread. “My lords, and ladies, dear friends old and new, we welcome our Queen’s beloved daughter and the Royal Princess of Elphaim, back home!” exclaims the man.

“Who is he…? Arethusa, who is he?” Aramis whispers in panic.

“His Majesty King Oberon, of course” replies Arethusa’s reassuring voice. “He loves all his many titles, but you can get away with Your Majesty, I suppose”, she giggles.

“Your Majesty…” Aramis mutters as she curtsies and her unsteady voice echoes in the endless hall.

“Oh no, no my dearest child!” cries the King. “This will not do at all!”

Aramis feels her knees trembling. What are his titles? What should she call this King whose court is affluent beyond anything she has ever seen and so welcoming? This King who calls her daughter? What if she offends him? She probably already has…

“Your Majesty. I …”

“Oh no, no, no, my dear!” laughs the King who now stands right in front of her. He lifts her up from her deep curtsy and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. “I hope we can still work on those white lilies tomorrow before your mother finds out,” he whispers in her ear. “And no ‘your majesties’ to me. I have an entire court for that. Call me Lord Father. I am your stepfather after all.”

“Lord Father, I am happy to be home,” she says and the entire court breaks in exclamations of joy.

The music begins anew, delightful, enchanting, and captivating. “You will dance with me, my dear” smiles the King. “I claim this first dance by right. And then of course this entire hall is yours to pick from.” She can see herself reflected in the black marble floor surrounded by white almond blossoms. It feels as if she is dancing in a dark starry sky. There is another partner. And another. The music and the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle envelop her completely.

“I have been looking forward to dancing with you for days”, he says. Is this a new dance partner? She feels as if she has just woken from a dream. She is now in another hall. A shimmering white marble floor reflects a ceiling made of colored glass. It feels as if they are dancing in a rainbow. There is no almond tree. She is wearing a purple velvet dress and her hair…Is this a wig? How long has she been dancing?

“Have you?” she is surprised to hear herself giggle but she cannot stop.

“Yes, your Royal Highness,” he sounds serious, too serious for her frame of mind. “Please, try to listen to what I have to say.” She looks at him for the first time. Her mind is clouded. He is young and handsome. African. “I am the Lord of Lost Hope,” he says. “My name is Stephen Black.”

“Well, Your Grace, you have an interesting name but few titles. I am not used to so few titles.” She cannot believe she made such an unkind remark and yet, somehow, it sounds like something she has said often. “Please your Royal Highness,” his voice is as steady as his hand, which holds her firmly, “you must take this message back, and back you must go. Mr. Norrell and Mr. Strange are safe for the moment but will not remain so for long. Not if this dreadful war continues.”

“Who are these two gentlemen, Your Grace?” she asks and the music stops suddenly.

She now sits in a lush armchair her feet resting on a soft leather ottoman. She is no longer wearing the red velvet dress. She is wearing a silk dark blue mantua. Arethusa is chatting away as she fills a delicate porcelain cup with tea. “Oh watch the flower in the tea!” Aramis feels too tired to look at anything, the words “dreadful war” resonating in her mind along with music that she is not able to shirk.

“Who are Mr. Norrell and Mr. Strange, Arethusa?”

“Where have you heard such odd names, Your Royal Highness? They sound foreign. They must not be from our parts. Are they from another kingdom perhaps? One of the Islands of the Great Circle? They have funny names there! Oh look at the flower! It blooms!” she claps her hands.

“Is there a war?”

Arethusa stops her ravings about the flower in the teacup. She is terrified. “Where have you heard such horrible things? Have I offended you in some way?” She is now weeping.

“No, no, please, no! Do not cry!” Aramis is not sure how to appease her friend. She is her friend… She has known her all her life….Hasn’t she?

“Arethusa, how long have we known each other?”

The nymph wipes her eyes, and smiles playfully. She is herself again. “For as long as you remember, Your Royal Highness!”

“Yes, but how long is that?” Aramis insists.

“Why is this important?” Arethusa shrugs. “Oh your ball gown for tonight is all made of silver thread and sea pearls, Your Royal Highness!”

Aramis’ mind wanders to another hall now, one that shimmers in the hues of the deep ocean. He is here again. Stephen Black, The Lord of Lost Hope, with his steady hand and his solid grip. “Remember,” he says, “give them my message. To your friends. They will know what to do. Tell them Mr. Norrell and Mr. Strange are kept in the Fortress of Bitter Tears.”

Aramis and Arethusa are lounging now in the garden under a canopy of pink wild roses. Some ladies play croquet in the distance. She wears a large straw hat and her gown has pale pink and white stripes. Lady Rhoslyn, the Marquise of Two Snowed Peaks sings with her lute. It is a song the entire court favors. It is rumored, Arethusa explains, that Queen Mab loved a prince once, and he sung it to her in the gardens of his palace.

 

 

> _Mignonne, allons voir si la rose_
> 
> _Qui ce matin avait déclose_
> 
> _Sa robe de pourpre au soleil,_
> 
> _A point perdu cette vesprée,_
> 
> _Les plis de sa robe pourprée,_
> 
> _Et son teint au vôtre pareil…._ ( 1)

 

“Do I have friends Arethusa?” Aramis asks.

“Of course, Your Royal Highness”, Arethusa is humming the melody as she plays with her delicate pink fan.

“I cannot remember any of their names or what they look like. Is this not strange?”

“You remember my name, Your Royal Highness.”

Aramis lingers on that thought, however. About names she must remember. Norrell and Strange. Two. Stephen Black. Three. Bitter Tears. Four. And before this? Was there a before? Before the man in the garden. The man that is called King Oberon. Before the dresses, and the wigs, and the dancing…Rochefort. Was that someone in a dream?

“Who is Rochefort?” she wonders aloud.

The air becomes completely still. The sky turns into a pale yellow color. Birdsongs cease. The ladies in the distance are frozen midgame. Lady Rhoslyn is silent. Arethusa looks haggard and devoid of life. Her sapphire blue eyes are dimmed.

“Who is Rochefort?” she cries out terrified.

“That was uncalled for, my love.” Her mother’s voice is stern, echoing in the complete stillness. Besides Aramis she is the only other moving, living, thing. “He is an anathema, my love. The dead thing that craves our light. You must never speak of such abominable things. Only beauty and joy belong to this court.”

She is dancing again, this time in a deep grove, under the light of thousands of fireflies surrounded by fountains and garlands made of wild flowers. She is wearing a pale lilac dress so sheer it is almost transparent, wrapped around her body like ancient Greek garments on statues. He is here again. The Lord of Lost Hope. “Remember,” he says, “Bitter Tears is at the northernmost border between Bitter Lands and Hell. No human has ever visited that part of the border. The King’s Roads take you there. Tell them before it is too late.”

“Too late for what?” she whispers, trying to concentrate.

“For your marriage to stop this war.”

“Am I married, Arethusa?” They are ready to go riding. She is wearing a fitted brown outfit, her riding whip in her hand. Arethusa is already on her black mare. Aramis’ is white. “Your Royal Highness? Married? Of course! Since you were born. And such an advantageous match it is! Your dear mother our beloved Queen arranged it herself!”

“Who is my husband?”

Arethusa rides ahead fast.

“Who is my husband?”

She is now in a room that looks like a study. Queen Mab stands next to King Oberon. He sits in a large chair by the fire. He looks troubled. Sad even.

“Who is my husband?”

Queen Mab smiles a calculated smile. “My dear you should not worry about such things. Worrying makes the skin pale and there is a ball this evening.”

“Who is my husband?” Aramis looks at the King.

“It was important to do this, my dear,” he says, avoiding her eyes. ”It was important for peace.” He looks up, almost apologetically. “The Raven King, my adopted son betrayed us, but we found a way to a truce.”

“Who is my husband?”

“The Prince and Heir to the Three Kingdoms, of course. The Raven King’s son,” Queen Mab replies sternly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Sweetheart, let’s see if the rose  
> That in morning light disclosed  
> Her crimson dress to the Sun,  
> This evening has lost once more  
> The folds of her crimson tussore,  
> And her, as your, complexion.  
> (Pierre de Ronsard, 1524, Les Odes: À Sa Maistresse)
> 
> Faerie (lands and people): based on the extensive notes/references provided by Susanna Clarke in her novel. Names, toponyms, etc. are added as required.


	13. To Catch a Fairy

 

 _Lar O’ Lar O’ Lar_ (1)  
_What name numbs your tongue?_  
_What sight shades your eyes?  
_ _What voice voids your mind?_

 _Lar O’ Lar O’ Lar_  
_Strike the match!_  
_Light the candle!_  
_Speak its name!  
_ _Make the catch!_

_(Nursery Rhyme, Region of Lupiac, Gascony)_

_(1)The ethnographer and folklorist Arnold Van Gennep (1873-1957) argues convincingly in his 1905 essay “Rites of Passage and the Significance of Nursery Rhymes and Fairy Tales” (American Anthropologist, Vol 7 (3): 480-495) that the nonsensical invocation “Lar O’ Lar O’Lar” of this rhyme is scrambled Latin. “O Lar” means “Oh Fairy”, and this nursery rhyme probably served as a mnemonic device for a basic Fairy summoning spell._

 

 

The ballroom is crowded with dancers. Its colors are those of the setting sun. Aramis’ partner is a dashing young prince in oriental costume. She cannot remember any of his many titles but he comes from the other great kingdom of Faerie known as Islands of the Great Circle. Are you my husband, she is about to ask but she is swept away by someone else. Stephen Black.

“Do you remember?” he insists as he wraps his arm around her shoulders in an elaborate dance figure.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Four. Four names. Norell, Strange, Stephen Black, Bitter Tears. I remember.” He smiles a fake smile for the court to see. His voice is serious and worried. “You must go back. You must escape this spell.”

“How?” she is anxious the dance might end. She too smiles a fake smile as she speaks. “Please, tell me before I drift away with this music, before my mind wanders to another ballroom.”

“Listen carefully,” he says. “Listen to your friends’ voices calling you. For they _are_ calling you back. They are right here, just on the other side. Follow their voices.”

“But how can I hear them? I don’t even know who they are…” she is about to ask. Only the Lord of Lost Hope is no longer there.

“Don’t let him escape! He is dazed! Move in a circle. Quickly!” the voices cry in the distance. She brings her galloping horse to a slow trot. It is dark, the light barely reaching the mossy ground under the dense green foliage. Suddenly, a rustling sound as a stag emerges through the tall ferns. She can hear the voices moving closer now and the barking of hounds. “That way! He must have gone that way! Hurry!” The stag looks panicked and she feels the same. “I must not be found. They must not see me.” She presses her horse to move forward, deeper into the forest. It soon becomes impossible for the horse to move in the overgrown vegetation, so she dismounts. But for her horse and her footsteps she hears no other sound, the voices of the hunting party having faded in the far distance. She is alone. Has she ever been alone? Perhaps, at those times before, those times Stephen Black alludes to, the times she had friends whose names she no longer remembers but whose voices she must follow. She stops walking, and closes her eyes listening to the silence.

“Renée, I know you can hear me.” It is but a whisper. A man’s voice. A familiar voice. His name lurks somewhere at the edges of her mind.

“Speak to me!” she calls out in her mind, “Speak to me so I can remember!”

“Come back to me…” he says.

She opens her eyes. She stands now in front of an old wooden door. It is half open and there is something behind it. She walks through. It is a sparsely furnished room with a bed, a few chairs, a washing basin, and a large old mirror on the wall. It feels familiar, as if she has been here in a dream.

“Come back to me,” says the voice. It is no longer a whisper. It is coming from somewhere close.

Aramis walks to the mirror and places her hand on its surface….

 

…. Mr. Segundus arrived at the Garrison with d’ Artagnan. Porthos worked one of his own invisibility spells, permitting d’ Artagnan and the English gentleman to become completely inconspicuous despite the fact that they traversed the busiest neighborhoods of Paris.

“There is no doubt, gentlemen,” confirms the Englishman. “Your friend is under a spell the likes of which I have never seen. In his _Discourses_ , Dr. Martin Pale describes a spell to conjure up death. Although that spell was generally dismissed as a fabrication, both Mr. Norrell and Mr. Strange were convinced it could be of some use, but not in this manner. Not like this. It appears that not one but several such death spells exist although we know of them only indirectly. But there is more to this spell here than conjuring up death. There is darker magic at work and ancient too. That locking gesture that you recall Monsieur Athos, and the names you mention. Hecate, Empusa… these are all ancient demons…”

“Why would ancient demons be disguised as nuns living in a ruined monastery?” asks Captain de Treville.

“What better way to entrap hapless victims walking through their gate,” says Athos. “And that school they kept talking about. Convenient is it not, given that they feed on children?”

Porthos looks thoughtful and worried. “There is even more to this, I am sure. Monsieur Segundus, is it not true that all ruins belong to the Raven King by right? I remember reading about this in the history of Shadow House.”

“Indeed, dear Baron. And of course the Raven King’s territory includes lands in Hell…”

“Those demons should be stopped immediately!” cries d’ Artagnan.

“Fascinating notion, Gascon,” Rochefort interjects in his quiet, deliberate, voice. He has been silent all this time. It is clear that he is not welcome in this company and he understands why. “Hecate and her daughters are formidable adversaries. I have met them in battle before. And your friend Aramis wounded their companion Mormo. Demons do not forget. But consider that any action you take against them is an action against the Raven King. For these demons are his allies, as is Monsieur Guizot, and even the French King you now serve….”

D’ Artagnan is incensed. “How dare you even speak to me…,” he begins but Athos interrupts him. “He is right, d’ Artagnan,” he says calmly. “It would be foolish to charge thoughtlessly against demons protected by the Raven King. And killing them would not break the spell is that not true Monsieur Segundus?”

The English gentleman considers his answer carefully. “If only we had access to Mr. Norrell’s library, gentlemen. I might have been able to give you a better answer. I have never encountered a spell created by demons. All I know for certain is that such spells cannot be reversed. Against humans they take hold immediately and are always deadly. Forgive me gentlemen, but I do not understand how your friend has lived so long… There is more here than meets the eye. There must be more than what our Gascon friend sees, more than the thorn and the vine….”

“Pardon me, Monsieur Segundus…” The young man decides it is no longer time for secrets. “Pardon me, Monsieur… As a Frenchman I trust reason only. And good sense.” He glares at Rochefort as he continues. “I have learned to distrust the Others and all they stand for. But I find it hard to distrust my eyes, Monsieur. And these last few days I have seen things I would never have imagined before. I find it hard to distrust my ears also…”

“Speak, my friend!” Porthos encourages him affectionately. “Aramis’ life is in danger!”

The young man blushes. He is embarrassed. “I think… no… I am certain… I am certain I can hear the sound of bells. At first I thought they were chimes, some noise from the street. But I hear them clearly. I hear them now. They are in this room.”

“Bells!” exclaims Mr. Segundus. “This explains a great deal!”

They all look bemused, Rochefort included. All, except Porthos. “Fairies!” he says, “there is a fairy spell at work! That is what the sound of bells means! Is that not so Mr. Segundus?”

“Indeed! And it must be a powerful spell, keeping your friend alive. What did you and Mademoiselle Aramis walked into, Monsieur Athos?”

“Can we summon this fairy perhaps, Monsieur Segundus?” asks Porthos. “I would not even fathom such a thing, but to save Aramis’ life…”

“Oh… if only I knew how… If only…. Mr. Norrell of course knew how. He never revealed this knowledge to anyone, unfortunately. Mr. Strange had to spend months working backwards to reconstruct Mr. Norrell’s summoning spell. Mr. Strange was convinced that seeing a Fairy was connected to the state of madness. While in Venice, he even concocted his own secret tincture of madness to be able to summon a fairy. And we know what all that led to. Although both Lady Pole and Mrs. Strange were released, the repercussions of that summoning were devastating for Mr. Strange, Mr. Norrell…and the whole world….”

“So it takes a madman to summon a fairy,” repeats Rochefort.

“It takes more than that, I fear, Sir” replies Mr. Segundus. “Even the basics are vague and little understood when it comes to fairies. As with any other summoning spell I imagine that a fairy-summoning spell also needs to blend the basic three elements. The envoy, to find the specific fairy summoned, the path, to lure them, and the handsel, the gift that binds them so they come. Then you need a temporal element. Something to convey to the one summoned when exactly they are supposed to appear. This last element is usually the light of a candle. That at least is known.”

“Like that nursery rhyme they sing in Gascony!” exclaims d’ Artagnan. “Strike the match, light the candle, speak its name, make the catch!”

“But how can we speak its name,” Captain de Treville sounds despondent. “We do not know the name of the fairy.” Rochefort listens to them carefully. He is not sure at all that they do not know that name. If what he now suspects is correct, then they do…

It is past midnight and they are all exhausted. “I will stay with her,” Rochefort suggests. “I do not need any sleep in the night. You can stay with her once the sun rises.” D’ Artagnan disagrees. “Let us go and rest, my friend,” Porthos argues. “I am certain we will need all our strength, in the days to come.”

“And leave Aramis alone with a vampire?”

“I will stay, young man,” offers Mr. Segundus. “After all, I am the only one that resembles a physician in this case, although I fear, so far, not a particularly successful one.”

“I will stay too,” Athos adds. “No offense, Monsieur Rochefort. Despite all your help, which I still cannot explain, I agree with d’ Artagnan.”

Rochefort bows his head with a faint smile. “As you please, gentlemen.”

Of course, both Mr. Segundus and Athos find it difficult to stay awake. Rochefort knows he has little time to waste. Madness is necessary he was just told, and he was a notorious madman once. The Kingdom of Faerie can be reached through mirrors. That much he knows well. He knew that even before he read all the newspapers about the exploits of Mr. Strange who walked the Raven King’s roads crossing through mirrors. And mirror reflections are but reversals of this world. So what is the exact opposite of his current, sane, self? As for the rest of the elements for the summoning spell he considers them one by one. The envoy is simple. Aramis’ ancient cross fits that purpose perfectly. That old cross was his once, and a gift of love, or so he thought. Aramis is wearing it around her neck. It is the only token of her real identity and a token that binds them through the centuries. He removes it quietly lifting it carefully with his handkerchief, for silver burns his skin. The path is simpler still. What better conduit can there be than the vampire blood they both share? He bites his wrist slightly, enough for a few drops of blood to stain the cross. He wraps it in his handkerchief and holds it in his hand. And then there is the gift. That is harder… or is it? “I shall be your servant for ever,” he whispers, “if you come back to me.” As for the fairy’s name, about that he has no doubt at all. “Renée” he whispers, “I know you can hear me. Come back to me….”

 


	14. Milady

_And there she lullèd me asleep,_  
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—  
The latest dream I ever dreamt  
On the cold hill side.

_(John Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci: A Ballad, 1819)_

 

“Enter, Madame.”

Minister Guizot stands at the window of his office looking at the dark night sky. 

“You sought me out, Guizot, so here I am.” She speaks deliberately, a mocking light in her green eyes.

“I may have a job for you, Madame,” he says without turning to look at her.

She scoffs. “I do not work for anyone, Monsieur. The only one I am faithful to is my Queen. Our Queen. As you well know.”

Guizot turns for the first time, gazing at her with disdain. “Oh, Madame. But you do. You work for someone else. You, and I, and Queen Lilith to whom you purport to be so faithful, we are all servants of the Raven King. It is Him you serve, Madame.”

“I am a servant to no one. Certainly not some English waif who now pretends to be Pope.”

“Pretending… It is fortuitous you raise the issue Madame. Let us indeed talk about pretending, if we must.”

She glides across the floor silently, a flash of anger in her catlike eyes.

“What is this job, Monsieur?”

He sits at his desk now, leaning back on his chair, satisfied. “A death.”

“Whose?”

“Someone who should have died long ago.”

“Who is it you want me to dispose of, Monsieur?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Rochefort.”

She stops, the mocking light disappearing from her eyes. “You want me to kill one of us? This is a crime punishable by real death!”

“You seem to have become quite sanctimonious, dear Madame. I am impressed by your newfound scruples. Rochefort chose not to be one of us, remember? He attacked our Queen, your Queen. He killed Vargas, his own Maker. That alone condemns him to real death.”

“Vargas deserved everything he got. His depravity was a threat to us all. That is why Rochefort has never been condemned by the Grand Court. If his crimes are as heinous you say, then let the Court decide his fate and let him be turned over to an executioner. 

“The Raven King demands it. Your Queen wishes it. You are the chosen one.” He hands her a letter, sealed with the sign of a cross hanging upside down from the crescent moon, Queen Lilith’s secret symbol.

She reads it several times carefully. “Impressive, Monsieur. How ingeniously does this letter deflect all responsibility for this heinous act from you and your Raven King! My Queen did not write this. She is not a fool and neither am I. This letter alone could condemn both her and me to real death.”

“And yet, Madame, here it is. Signed and sealed with her mark. An act of trust towards our Raven King (he stresses “our”)…”

“…Or perhaps Monsieur, an act of despair? For my Queen knows how your little fake Pope, who craves her lands and power, is currently losing the war taking her down along with him. And what do _you_ expect to gain from all this, Monsieur, I wonder? Her throne? I thought you were content just serving the ridiculous citizen King of the French.” She throws the letter on his desk with disgust. “I will do nothing unless I speak to the Queen myself first.”

“You will do as you are ordered, Madame. You have no choice. But perhaps you think you have free will. Perhaps Rochefort is more to you than any of us imagine he is. Perhaps you are one of his followers...” 

“You and your Raven King threaten like terrified schoolboys, Monsieur,” she laughs. “Remember I am much older and far more powerful than you ever will be, Guizot. This game is not for trembling little boys like you.” She turns and motions to leave the room.

“I bow to your age and vast experience in both politics and murder, Madame,” he retorts. “For who among us has had the privilege to be trained in both by the Great Richelieu?”

She stops short.

“Ah yes, Madame. Milady Winter, was it not? Or was it Charlotte Backson? Lady Clarick Baroness of Sheffield? Or maybe it was Anne de Breuil? So many names, for one so resourceful,” he continues.

“I have no idea what you are rambling about, Guizot.” Despite the calmness of her features, there is a slight tremble in her voice now.

“No indeed, Madame, how could you? For, before you were turned you were… what? A poor widow of the English civil war, victim of the Great Plague of London, brought over to your new life by Lilith your magnanimous mother and Queen? Such a touching story and so convincing to that gallant beloved husband of yours.”

A flash of anger crosses her pale face, “do not dare mention him, Guizot. I warn you!”

“Or else, Madame? Would you now attack one of your own? How shocking!” he smirks. “But, let us talk of him for a moment, that gallant nobleman, your husband, who serves in the Musketeers, in part because of you. If I am not mistaken, something similar happened a long time ago to one of his ancestors. How this young man would feel if he discovered the truth about who you really are, I wonder. About who you were to his ancestor.”

“I will not let you or your usurper Pope hurt him, Guizot,” she hisses.

“How protective of that young man you are! I stand in awe, Madame. Can it be that you actually have feelings for him? A vampire with a real heart! Such a romantic notion! But perhaps he is much more than a lover. For he affords such a perfect, fitting, way to bring to a close that cycle of misery you started in another life, long ago. Maybe he is your redemption. Or even better…maybe he is the pure knight everyone says is prophesied. Maybe he can grant you the gift of walking in daylight once again…”

“Enough”, she says, grabbing the letter from his desk. “How do you propose to have Rochefort killed?”

“There is word of the plague. It broke out in Russia some months ago. It has now reached England. It will arrive on French shores soon, if it is not here already. Paris is a cesspit….”

“Death by tainted blood? What do you take Rochefort for, Guizot? Vampires of his status do not hunt in plague-infested slums, if they ever hunt at all. He feeds only on the best and I am sure his servants do all the hunting or just purchase the best for him.”

“The plague does not discriminate. How unfortunate for a vampire of his status as you say to be treated to one fateful, tainted, glass of the latest harvest, wouldn’t you say?”

“Death by tainted blood is horrific, Guizot. It amounts to torture. I can give him real death in seconds….”

“He is a traitor to our kind, to your Queen, and to the Raven King. Real death is too good for him. This should serve as a warning to all his followers. He should become an example.”

“Or a martyr…” she whispers, leaving the room.

 


	15. Full Circle

_I look’d upon thy raven hair,_  
_My heartless fairy queen,_  
_I look’d into thy dark blue eyes  
_ _The darkest blue I’d seen._

_My ears can hear no other sound,_  
_But your enchanting song,_  
_My eyes can see no other sight,  
_ _But your alluring form._

_“Weep not my faithful knight”_  
_My heartless mistress taunts,_  
_“Thy pure heart forever mine,  
_ _Thy soul forever lost.”_

_Ballad of the Fairy Queen, Traditional, late 17 th c. _

  

Rochefort lights a candle. It is the last step. Now it is all up to her, he thinks.

The light flickers and Athos stirs. “Is something wrong? Is she worse?”

Rochefort is about to answer but stops. There is a peculiar screeching sound. It is soft at first. Mr. Segundus wakes up too. The sound becomes louder, emanating from the old mirror over Athos’s washing basin. “What on earth…” Athos says, as he stands up and walks to the mirror. He picks up the candle and examines its shining solid surface in the light. Only the surface of the mirror is no longer solid. It looks uneven, as if something is pushing through it.

Rochefort avoids looking into the mirror. He steps back in the darkest corner of the room, filled with anticipation. Perhaps his experiment worked. He closes his eyes and in his mind he repeats her name “Renée.” The mirror shutters with a loud crash and a large ball of light flies through it. D’ Artagnan and Porthos burst through the door just in time to see it.

“What is all this noise? What is happening?”

The bright light subsides although not completely. A creature, for something living has hurled itself through the mirror, is luminous, like a firefly. She--is it a she?-- has long raven black hair, streaked in different hues of green and blue, and braided in the most elaborate manner with silk ribbons and flowers made of delicate sapphire stones. She is wearing a dark green dress reminiscent of old-fashioned riding habits from the era of Marie Antoinette.

“The Fairy!” shouts Porthos. “Athos, quickly! The candle! Trap the fairy!” The creature looks dazed as she turns her head towards them. Athos blows the light of the candle. She blinks as if blinded. The bright light emanating from her pale skin makes her features difficult to discern. But she is beautiful. She has large eyes and her soft red lips look like a rose bud. She is angry.

“How dare you!” she says looking at Athos, who stands in front of her, the smoking candle still in his hand. “How dare you summon me in this undignified manner! A candle? As if I am some princeling from the Lower Sandy Coast or some merchant’s wife from The Twelve Trumpets? Have you any idea who I am?”

“No…” he mutters utterly confused.

She stands up, dusting her long skirts and looking around the room. “What sordid place is this? Not even decent curtains! Not a single carpet!” She turns to Athos once more and gazes at him disapprovingly from head to toe. “What a total mess you are. How dare you appear before me in this state? And who are all these other disheveled people? What sort of circus is this?”

Mr. Segundus takes the lead.

“Madame…”

“Madame?! Me?! I am certainly not ‘ _Madame_ ’!” She giggles as she looks at him. “You are such a funny little man! I suggest a wig by our very own Mr. Zephaniah Capillamentus, although I am not an advocate of wigs myself. But for you Sir, they will be an improvement, and Mr. Capillamentus is the best choice!”

“Renée?” Rochefort’s voice resonates from the darker corner of the room.

The fairy notices him. She is horrified. “What is that abomination doing in my presence?” She raises her arm as if to strike in the air towards Rochefort but Mr. Segundus gets in the way, “No, No! Please! Your Honorable Gracious Imperial Majesty!” he cries summoning every conceivable title he can think of, for he knows that fairies are dangerous and that an angry fairy striking with her magic can be devastating. After all, it was that other fairy, the Gentleman with Thistledown Hair, whose wrath became the black cloud that almost consumed the world.

“What _should_ we call this creature?” whispers d’ Artagnan to Porthos.

“ _What should we call this creature_?” the fairy imitates d’ Artagnan’s anxious inquiry with a giggle. “Well, well… what do we have here?” she says turning now towards the young Gascon. “You are such a curious little thing. You are definitely not one of us, but… you intrigue me. Are you a prince from the Islands of the Great Circle? They are all such interesting people. Have we danced at a ball, perchance?”

“Um…No… I fear… Your… Grace” d’ Artagnan stammers.

“Your Royal Highness,” she corrects him majestically.

“Your Royal Highness,” Porthos interjects. “We are honored by your presence in this, our humble, abode.”

“That is better. Finally, someone who completes his sentences adequately and is not confused. So now that your rude unkempt friend trapped me with his candle in this, your humble abode, what would you have me do in exchange for my freedom? Is that not what you want?”

“You are very perceptive, Your Royal Highness,” admits Porthos, bowing reverently.

“You brought me here so you can strike a bargain, so the sooner we do this the better for all. I have already missed the hunt. I refuse to miss the ball this evening, especially if I have to spend any time here, in this miserable place,” she scoffs.

“We hope you will help us restore the health of a dear friend,” says Porthos.

“Is he dead?” she giggles clapping her hands with excitement. “Please say he is! For I have always hoped to get involved with humans in one of their sad efforts to bring people back from the dead! We heard such tall tales about one petty lord of no importance who had taken over Lost Hope! Apparently he served one of your ridiculous magicians! And they seriously thought that pretentious nobody was someone important in Faerie! Scandalous! Did they even notice his hair? Terrible taste!”

Mr. Segundus leads her towards the bed. “No, your Royal Highness. _She_ is still alive. Our friend is a young lady. But she is caught in a death spell and we think you may know something about all this. Something that may help us save her life….”

The fairy walks decisively to the bed and flings the bed covers revealing Aramis. “What kind of sick jest is this!” she exclaims gazing at the woman in the bed. But before she can even finish her sentence a powerful force thrusts her across the room and onto the floor. Athos and Porthos rush towards the creature while the rest of them flock around Aramis’ bed fearing their friend has suffered even worse in the hands of this fairy.

“Oh no!” yells d’ Artagnan. “Aramis… Aramis….” for their friend no longer breathes. Rochefort sinks in a chair. It was a mistake. It was all a terrible mistake. He raises his eyes to look at Aramis one more time. Her skin is now so pale it is almost translucent. She fades slowly as if she is made of mist. “What is happening, Mr. Segundus?” d’ Artagnan is panicked. “What is happening to Aramis?”

“What do you mean, Gascon?” replies a voice from the other side of the room. Aramis’ voice. “Nothing whatsoever is happening to me but what am I doing on the floor in this silly dress and this ridiculous wig?” Athos helps her to her feet and she looks at him annoyed. “Athos please tell me you did not make me drink when we were at that ruined convent!” She stands up. Her skin is no longer glowing. This is the old Aramis. In the flesh.

“Aramis…?” whispers Porthos “Is this you?”

“Of course, Porthos,” she retorts, “don’t be ridiculous!”

“How do you feel?” asks Athos

“I am not sure… Dizzy? … As if I had a lot to drink. My feet hurt. Have I been dancing? 

“What is the last thing you remember, Mademoiselle?” asks Mr. Segundus.

“Pardon me, Monsieur?”

“Indeed,” Porthos interjects. “Aramis, this is a dear friend. Mr. John Segundus. The…”

“… theoretical magician?” Aramis interrupts him. “I have heard of you Sir, of course I have. Mr. Strange’s biographer…”

She stops. _Strange… Norrell and Strange… Two…. Bitter Tears… Three_. For a split second her mind fills with odd, unearthly, music and a man’s serious voice whispers: “ _Remember_!”

“Aramis, are you feeling alright?” Athos puts his arm around her waist and lifts her to a chair. She is about to faint.

“Some wine perhaps?” Mr. Segundus suggests. “And then we should let her rest. It is impossible to piece together what happened at the moment. She will tell us but she needs to rest.”

Aramis opens her eyes. “Can you all please stop talking about me as if I am not here and cannot hear you?” She is irritated. “I am fine, just light-headed. I feel as if I was dancing for days. And I would like to go home and remove these stupid clothes, if I may….”

“I can take you home immediately,” Rochefort says. “We will not even have to walk there, so no one will have the chance to admire your new hair…” She smiles a weary smile. “I would like that.”

By noon the following day she sits in the Captain’s office. They are all there, except Rochefort since vampires do not walk around in the daylight. Aramis is herself again, the old familiar buzzing of people’s thoughts at the back of her mind, her cutting wit, and her silver bullets. She remembers riding in the storm towards the monastery on the way to Amiens. She remembers most of that night, the pain, the nuns, the demons, Sister Helene, Athos in danger, and of course her visions. She decides not to speak about the latter. After that her memories fail her. There are just scattered incoherent and fragmented images: a man with a straw hat, lily bulbs in a basket, an almond tree, long corridors lined in statues and gold, a delicate pink fan in the hands of a woman. And something she has to remember. Something important.

“Who was the fairy you trapped with your candle?” she asks Athos as they motion to leave the Captain’s office. He smiles. “I am not sure. She looked like you. Well… vaguely. But she sounded nothing like you….”

“You realize that now you have trapped your very own fairy servant?” she teases him.

“I hope not, for whoever that creature was, she was simply terrifying.”

“But you summoned her in the first place…”

“Oh no, I did not!” he protests. “I had nothing to do with it. And neither did Mr. Segundus. Perhaps it was Porthos, but then… he was not even in the room…”

“Who summoned her then?” she is about to ask and realizes she knows the answer. For a split second again her mind wanders. She finds herself in a deep dark forest listening for voices in the silence. “Renée, come back to me” echoes a voice. Rochefort’s voice.

She hopes he visits her as soon as the sun sets. She walks out of the garrison gate, expecting to see him standing there, under the arches of the building across the street, in his elegant suit, bowing politely touching the brim of his hat. But he is not there. An arrogant voice in her mind exclaims “what is that abomination doing in my presence?” It is the fairy’s voice, it is her own voice; one and the same. Her heart sinks as she realizes the truth: that creature that Athos found terrifying; that creature was herself. 

Rochefort’s servant, an older man named Bernard, tells her his master is not at home.

She insists. "I must see him. It is important. I must… "

“He did not say where he was going, Mademoiselle.” The servant is discreet and loyal as he should be, but she must find Rochefort. There is always another way. She focuses her mind on the old man’s thoughts and she knows exactly where she has to go.

There is a part of the Louvre that is kept closed. It is a very old part, ruined during the Revolution. Napoleon never bothered restoring that part of his grand museum for it would be too costly. As for the current King of the French, he is simply too poor for any such undertaking. It is used mostly now to store old discarded furniture, museum shelves, and pieces of unwanted and unused art. She finds him there. The room is dark, wet, and smells of mold. He sits on an old wooden bench under a large open window the weak light of the moon shining every now and then behind the clouds.

“You found me,” he says. She cannot see his face. She cannot tell if he wants to be found.

“I think you found me first,” she smiles and hopes he sees it.

“I have your cross,” he says and hands her his bloodstained handkerchief with her family heirloom.

“That is your blood, is it not? And this is really your cross Monsieur, not mine…”

He looks up at her now for the first time and notices that she places the cross on an old table next to her instead of fastening it around her neck.

“So this is the room. The room where it all happened? Anne’s antechamber?” she says quietly looking around.

He nods silently.

“Not much to look at…”

He does not reply. He looks weary. 

“I saw them you know….” 

He looks up again, intrigued.

“Anne and Aramis. I saw them at that old monastery on the way to Amiens. It was a vision, or a dream. But I saw them. It was night. He sat under an open window just like you do now. He looked tired. Upset…”

She walks towards Rochefort slowly, her movements now imitating every detail of her story.

 

> _“She knelt at his feet, removed a curl of hair from his brow and whispered softly, ‘any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you’…_ ”

He is shaken, almost tearful, as she kisses his lips; one long, deep, kiss.

He pushes her back softly. “Are you sure?” 

"Are you?" she replies. 


	16. PART II (note 1): Afterglow

> _Beloved,_
> 
> _I write to you although you will never read my letter. I write so I do not forget your form, that glimmer in your eyes when you smiled, the curve of your lips, the feeling of your skin against mine. I write because it is the only way to keep you alive in my thoughts. That is the hardest. I look for you in every reflection. I try to listen in silence, lest I hear your voice. Sometimes I feel your presence close to me. Then I know you can see me…_
> 
> _(“Beloved” Letter—unfinished—undated; approx. date: ante1818. Arabella Strange Archive, Folio #7, Bodleian Libraries, Weston Library, University of Oxford)(2)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The events of Part II take place in the months before the June Rebellion or the Paris Uprising of June 1832 (June 5-6). That antimonarchist rebellion is described in Victor Hugo’s well-known novel Les Misérables. 
> 
> (2) The quote by Arabella Strange, and the arc for her character developed here are not found in Susanna Clarke’s original novel.


	17. Conspiracy

_“We regret to observe in many parts of this country [France] a spirit of tumult directed against the Catholic religion. Despite the Queen’s unwavering and pious observation of the faith, the State no longer adheres to its teachings, but maintains strong connections with the Usurper of the Holy See. Still the government interferes with our ecclesiastic concerns and the administration of the Church, including allocation of Her properties, churches, and monasteries. In doing so, the State affords power of intervention to its treacherous allies in Rome._ _We should indeed rejoice if the proposition of the Abbé_ _Hugues-Félicité Robert De La Mennais (1)_ _was adopted, and the church of France was thus, as we trust she will be, completely severed from the purlieus of the Palais-Royal.”_ _(Jesuit, or, Catholic Sentinel, Volume II, Number XIX, 8 January 1832, Boston.)_

 

It is after midnight. The Garrison feels deserted. Monsieur de Treville walks up to the guard at the main gate. “Take a few minutes and stretch your legs,” he says patting him on the back. It is unusual but the guard does not complain. The Captain stands at the gate, as the young Musketeer walks into the mess hall. The street is quiet but for a single hooded figure approaching in confident, resolute, stride. “All clear,” whispers the Captain, as the hooded man crosses the Garrison gate.

The man stands now in Monsieur de Treville’s office. He is tall, handsome even, dressed in a dark clerical-looking suit. “Armand, my friend…” His voice is warm despite his pale features and his serious demeanor. “You risk everything arranging this meeting here.”

“It remains the safest place, Robert. Even if we are seen or heard, which I doubt, my men are loyal to me.”

“I heard about Amiens, Armand. Everyone talks about the Magician among your men. The one who animated the stone horsemen with the slightest wave of his sword. Such an ingenious act of defiance against the Usurper in Rome! I should rejoice. But resistance must be based on reason, good sense, and the word of God not on Magic and her dark devices.”

“That is what I must speak to you about, Robert,” the Captain sounds hesitant, as if unsure how to begin. “About something else. Someone else. I am not certain of course. I have no concrete proof. And yet…there is a young man among my Musketeers. A Gascon…”

“The boy who foolishly provoked the Lycian Brotherhood? The one who bravely defended the Queen at Amiens? Abbé Peron who witnessed the entire scene at the Cathedral spoke to me of him.”

“The very one, my friend. There is something about this boy. His father was a comrade in arms. Died defending his wife who was burned at the stake during the witch trials in Lupiac. She was a good woman. A healer. She never harmed a soul and saved the lives of many, including mine.”

“So the boy is gifted like his unfortunate mother?”

“That I do not know. But there is something about him. I thought it was the light reflecting from his sword that day at Amiens….” Monsieur de Treville chooses not to add that Mr. Segundus confided how he also had observed the same unearthly light enveloping d’ Artagnan, and not just during the fight at Amiens. The Captain hopes to avoid longwinded explanations about fairy spells and his interactions with yet another Magician, and an Englishman for that matter. “The boy is extraordinary…” he says.

“Are you telling me what I think you are telling me, Armand?”

The Captain nods. “What if he is the one?”

“I doubt there is such a person. In fact, I doubt there is a prophecy. No one has ever seen it. It is all a clever ploy. But even if there were a prophecy I would never adhere to its teachings. Neither should you, Armand. We are reasonable men, men of good sense. We must strive to remain free of sin. Believing in and repeating the ramblings of magicians and sorcerers is a grave sin indeed.”

“And yet, Robert, we know that Angels have never supported the Usurper whose lands borders their kingdoms. And that, as with the great knights of ancient times, they will select a champion for their cause, a sign that they have joined the war on the side of Heaven. They always do, prophesies aside….”

“In that case, Armand, and if this boy is blessed with the Calling, as you suspect, we must assume that the Usurper knows. That he will tempt the boy and lure him to his side. He is a powerful adversary with numerous allies and with a great deal to offer. We must instruct the boy about our cause and the Usurper’s designs, and train him to withstand temptation. How is he inclined towards the Others?”

“He is a good Catholic. A Gascon. Hot tempered, impetuous, and direct. Absolute in his views. 

“He must learn to constrain himself, then. He must learn discipline. He must also learn to be open-minded, able to tell his allies from his foes, for we do not fight this war against the Usurper alone, and our allies include many Others. And he must be perfected in the art of fighting. We must find a good and rigorous fencing master for him and a companion of excellent character and integrity, who will teach him by example.”

“I know the very man,” says the Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Abbé Hugues-Félicité Robert De La Mennais: (19 June 1782 – 27 February 1854) was a French Catholic priest, philosopher, and political theorist. He was one of the most influential intellectuals of Restoration France. He sympathized with the 1848 revolution. He is fictionalized here. It is implied (see next chapter) that he may be an ally of Monsieur Pelletier and the Comte de Rochefort, and therefore allied with characters with radical politics consistent with those of the 1832 and later 1848 revolution. The Boston Jesuit newspaper clip at the beginning of the chapter is an actual historical one, adapted only slightly to fit the purposes and the universe of this story.


	18. Poison

_Tout cela ne vaut pas le poison qui découle  
De tes yeux, de tes yeux verts,  
Lacs où mon âme tremble et se voit à l'envers...  
Mes songes viennent en foule  
Pour se désaltérer à ces gouffres amers  (1)  
__(Charles Baudelaire, Le Poison-Fleurs du mal, 1_ st publication: 1857)

 

_Paris, April 17, 1832_

> _Dear Comte de Rochefort,_
> 
> _I write to you not as your banker and advisor but as your dear friend of many years. I hope that my letter finds you content and safe, although it is your safety that is of concern to me and to all our comrades and friends. You have, as you well know, many loyal friends and not just within the Brotherhood. For your cause is our cause. I write all this without hesitation or concealment, knowing too well that my letter may be intercepted. But nothing I write in this letter is a secret and those who have the indecency to read it without any authorization or right to its content shall learn little that is new. I challenge them to provoke me or any of my people. Our Brotherhood, and I personally, have always spoken out in support of a world where free will, choice, independence of thought, and concern for the wellbeing and the happiness of people, determine our actions, instead of faceless decrees by crowned heads, be they of These or The Other Lands. Of course, those who will intercept this letter will also know that you have been warned. Consider your actions moving forward based on this fact._

 

Milady sets the letter on a side table and leans back in her armchair. She feels exhausted and disgusted. Here she is reading this letter sent from one old friend to another. Written as a warning against the very thing she has already set in motion. She despises Guizot (2). She despises the Raven King. She despises what she is becoming, once again. She thought deception and murder were behind her. Of course that can never be so, she tells herself, resigned. You can never really escape who you are or what you have been. Rochefort seems to have achieved it. She admires him for that. But now he must die. It is that simple. She should not think any more of him. If she does, she will never be able to complete her mission. Conscience is not compatible with murder. She picks up the letter and continues to read.

 

> _I write to you regarding the incident at Amiens two days ago, on Easter Day. Let me state at the outset that our Brotherhood has nothing to do with the attack on the Queen and her retinue although we are blamed for it. It is an ingenious ploy to discredit us; one more effort to appropriate our great ancient institutions of credit and trade. It has the brand of our Enemies. It is an attack on all of us, including you. Those involved in the events at Amiens are certainly not members of our Brotherhood although they are of our kind. My sources tell me their leader is a certain Labarge (3). We’ve had dealings with him and his pack in the past. They sell themselves to the highest bidder. We shall discover whom they currently work for, although it is not difficult to imagine. We shall seek these traitors out and they will pay—we have laws that determine the penalties for their crimes, for that you may stand assured. They will be found. And they will be punished._

 

Labarge. Milady shudders at the name: a vulgar brute leading a pack of malcontents and mercenaries. Her Queen would never have associated herself with such scum. It is inconceivable. This has the brand of Guizot. She has no doubt.

 

> _Let me return to the incident at Amiens, my friend, since I think there are details you should know. I was there along with my dearest daughter Fleur. I was there to meet one of our Allies. His name I dare not mention in this letter. I saw everything. The Magician standing still in the middle of the confusion, waving his sword in the air; the stone horsemen descending from the Cathedral to fight alongside the Musketeers… It was a remarkable sight. But what was more remarkable was the boy._
> 
> _I must speak to you about this boy._
> 
> _Fleur met him once before. He offered to assist her when her carriage wheel broke outside of Paris. Her brothers did not take kindly to his intervention when they discovered them together. Perhaps the young man had good intentions. My sons are protective however and Fleur is very precious, as you know. She insisted it was a misunderstanding. She kept saying the young man is not to be touched. We should have listened. I lost three of my sons almost a week later on the road to Lille as they foolishly kept pursuing him._

Milady has heard about the girl, Fleur, Monsieur Pelletier’s only daughter. She is raised like a princess according to gossip, for she is not out in society. Her father and her many brothers are very protective of her so the girl lives a sheltered life. They say she is a sensitive. Able to see things no one else can. It is rumored she can talk to the dead.

 

> _It was a mistake to pursue the young man. After Amiens I know it was a mistake, for he is exceptional, like my dearest Fleur. How can I describe what I witnessed, my friend? There he was, this young man, fighting to protect his Queen, enveloped in an aura as bright and ethereal as my eyes have ever beheld. Fleur could see much more in that light. She will not tell me what exactly. But she calls him the Chosen One. Could it be my friend? If so, we must consider that the war is no longer confined to the Other Lands. We must of course assume our Enemies know about the boy. The square and the Cathedral were full of their spies. We should expect they will attack. They are losing the war. I fear they will attack you first. Be careful my friend. Be mindful of this young man. We must make sure he is protected._
> 
> _–In Love and Friendship—_
> 
> _Pierre Gaspard Pelletier (4)_

Milady reads the last paragraph of the letter over and over in complete bewilderment. This cannot be, of course. The chosen one is another. The one who shall grant her the Gift of Light. It cannot be… But if it is so, she tells herself, unlikely though it sounds, then she knows exactly who the young man is. She has seen him with Athos and that mercer’s niece. Young, raw, and naïve. Not much different from another young Gascon she knew well, many lifetimes ago…

A servant knocks and walks in. “You asked for me, Madame?”

“Indeed,” she retorts. “You are to take the bottle that stands on the table. It is good vintage and it is a gift to a dear friend. Find a messenger to deliver it to the address on the envelope along with this message.”

She picks up a pen and writes a quick note in the hand of Monsieur Pelletier:

 

> _“Dear Comte de Rochefort,_
> 
> _This delectable vintage was just harvested as befits your exquisite taste. It is a gift to celebrate the victories of our friends in the Other Lands._
> 
> _—In Love and Friendship—_
> 
> _Pierre Gaspard Pelletier”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1)  
> So much for all that, it is not worth the poison  
> Contained in your eyes, your green eyes,  
> They are lakes where my soul shivers and sees itself overturned.  
> My dreams crowd in  
> To quench these bitter gulfs
> 
> (2) Guizot (François Pierre Guillaume Guizot, 4 October 1787 – 12 September 1874): French historian, orator, and statesman, who dominated politics during this period. He was a conservative liberal who worked to sustain the constitutional monarchy of the July Revolution. Between 1832-37 he served King Louis Philippe as his Minister of Education. Fictionalized here for the purposes of this story. See also in Part I. 
> 
> (3) Labarge: entirely fictional character based on a character from the series The Musketeers, BBC (season 1)
> 
> (4) Pierre Gaspard Pelletier: entirely fictional character. His character is loosely based on historical characters such as Jacques Laffitte (24 October 1767 – 26 May 1844) and James Mayer de Rothschild, Baron de Rothschild (May 15, 1792 – November 15, 1868), neither of whom however had radical political ideas nor supported the multiple rebellions against King Louis Philippe.


	19. Venus Before Dawn (Note 1)

_Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-_  
_Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night_  
_And watching, with eternal lids apart,_  
_Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,_  
_The moving waters at their priestlike task_  
_Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,_  
_Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask_  
_Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-_  
_No- yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,_  
_Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,_  
_To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,_  
_Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,_  
_Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_  
_And so live ever- or else swoon to death._

_(John Keats, Bright Star, 1820)_

 

Her fingers trace his bare chest. They linger over his heart surprised to feel something like a heartbeat although she knows well his heart stopped centuries ago. He has an old burning mark on his right shoulder, left by the Spanish inquisitors that had held him captive.

It was not inevitable that this would happen. He was tentative, intimidated. But she made it happen. She has always been reckless this way. At least that is what Athos calls it, “reckless”, and not just secretly, in his thoughts. She always cherished this side of herself, however, and never thought of it reckless despite Athos’ disapproval. She knows well now that it is this reckless part of her, which called Rochefort an abomination the night before. And this same part invited him to her bed tonight.

She thinks of poor old Bonacieux and his elation at the prospect of someone killing a vampire like the Comte de Rochefort. If only he knew that very same vampire is now here, in his own house and in her bed. She would love to tell that old fool to his face.

Softly, she moves her fingers lower, tracing the tight muscles of the vampire’s stomach. She discovers an old scar, which feels like a deep deadly sword thrust. The mark of the Great d’ Artagnan. There is another scar on his back; a second sword wound. She felt it while removing his shirt. She dares not ask but suspects it is one left by another Aramis, long ago. He smiles without saying a word while paying attention to the slightest move of her fingers. Aramis kisses the dip at the base of his neck. He trembles slightly and laughs, as if embarrassed by such momentary weakness, “examining the lands you conquered, your Royal Highness? How does that old song go? _I look’d upon thy raven hair, my heartless fairy queen (2)…_?”

“I am not a queen,” she protests. “I am not! Please, stop calling me that. I am only a Musketeer. I was caught in a vicious spell and remember only fragments of what happened…unfortunately not the important fragments. But that is all…” She lies of course. She remembers speaking in the fairy’s voice. She remembers calling him an abomination. Above all, she recalls clearly that at the time she meant it. 

He lifts her head off his chest and looks straight into her eyes with fondness, “you know this is not true. You know you must accept the truth sooner or later, about who you are, who I am, and what needs to be done. And when you accept that truth then you will remember all those things you do not remember now. The things you know very well are important.”

He kisses her softly, carefully, wrapping his arms around her naked body that lies next to his. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed by sensations that until now had been nothing but faded memories: the crispness of morning dew on his skin, the distant fragrance of lavender fields diffused with the pale rose hues of the rising sun, and then, glorious and blinding, the warmth of pure sunlight. He opens his eyes terrified. Although he knows it is not possible, he feels his old wounds throbbing with pain. He was sure he had forgotten all this. He had left it all behind, buried alongside his sad human self hundreds of years ago. Now, in her arms he feels exposed, naked, and vulnerable. The promise of sunlight is terrifying if you have learned to be content with the moon.

He dared not taste her blood nor did she invite him. Why would she? Even if she claims she has no recollection of the fairy that Athos trapped, the fairy that speaks in her voice, what that fairy said is true. He is, he should be, an abomination to her. Besides, he is not sure now he even wants to take the risk of sharing her blood. This is after all not just any fairy he holds in his arms tonight. He remembers the story of a vampire named Grimaud who served Queen Lilith when the Kingdoms of Hell and the Raven King agreed to a truce with the Seely Courts. As the story goes, Queen Mab developed a passing fancy for him. The fool pursued her, thinking he might earn the Gift of Light, only to discover that royal fairy blood is deadly, especially when taken by force.

She notices his uneasiness but says nothing. What can she possibly say given her own words the previous night? Those angry words she uttered in the fairy’s voice? She knows he doubts her. She doubts herself. And somewhere at the back of her mind, that fairy voice, whispers still “ _he is the undead thing that craves our light_.” She is surprised he did not attempt to taste her blood. The part of her that Athos finds reckless would have invited him to taste it without a second thought. Still, she did not offer.

He motions to sit up, and she realizes it is almost dawn. “I must leave,” he whispers. He kisses her again. “I will be at the usual place outside the Garrison as soon as night falls.”

“Then this cruel fairy should make sure she does not forget you by night-fall, _my faithful knight (2)_ …” she taunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The character of Rochefort in this story is inspired only tentatively by the BBC Musketeers character played by the talented Mr. Marc Warren and the story arc developed for him in that series. However, the primary inspiration for the character as he is written and for his story arc as it develops here comes from the historical Victor Henri Rochefort, Marquis de Rochefort-Luçay (30 January 1831 – 30 June 1913), who was a politician, playwright, and journalist. Please see also Part I for the same explanation and also for the chronological issues re: using this historical Rochefort in a story that takes place at the time of his birth (too early). Vampire characters used as inspiration include Eric Northman (True Blood) and Spike (Buffy the Vampire Slayer.) 
> 
> (2) Both Rochefort and Aramis reference the Ballad of the Fairy Queen quoted in Part I. 
> 
> I look’d upon thy raven hair,  
> My heartless fairy queen,  
> I look’d into thy dark blue eyes  
> The darkest blue I’d seen.
> 
> My ears can hear no other sound,  
> But your enchanting song,  
> My eyes can see no other sight,  
> But your alluring form.
> 
> “Weep not my faithful knight”  
> My heartless mistress taunts,  
> “Thy pure heart forever mine,  
> Thy soul forever lost.”  
> Ballad of the Fairy Queen, Traditional, late 17th c.


	20. Plague

**_Le Cholera Morbus_ **

_Ah! Dear July Revolution!  
_ _Without you I would have stayed in northern Russia.  
_ _It was you who, by revolutionizing Poland, brought me to this unfortunate land, spreading to Germany, England, and finally, thanks to you, dear July Revolution, here I am in Paris.  
_ _Let's unite for the happiness of the people!  
_ _Long Live The Propaganda!_

 _(French Caricature attributing the Cholera outbreak to the July Revolution, 1832, transl. from French)_  

It must have taken hold of the city at the end of March although no one appeared to notice (1). It is a glorious spring, with warm weather, more like an early summer. Colorful buds are bursting earlier than usual. The Tuileries are crowded with families, lovers, idle passers by, reveling in the pleasant sunlight. It is as if the sick are not also arriving every day from Oise and Maux outside the city walls at hospitals like the Hôtel Dieu. It is as if the churches are not all draped in black, biers carried in one after the other in an endless succession of funerals. By the end of April the odor of disease and death permeates the air, hearses take over the streets, and the sick are carried in plain sight to hospitals where death is certain and quick.

Bodies are piling in the morgue across from the Musketeer Garrison. Monsieur de Treville is ordered to move his regiment to a safer location far from the pestilence as if that were even possible. So, as fate would have it and unbeknownst to everyone but Monsieur de Treville, almost 200 years later the Musketeers find themselves back inside the Palais du Louvre, at the exact same location where the celebrated Garrison once stood, the one burned to the ground long ago, during the minority of the Great Louis.

The move does not go unnoticed and clashes erupt as panicked citizens feel they are being abandoned to their dismal fate. Further riots erupt at the Porte St. Denis, as rumors spread that dozens of people are being poisoned at wine shops. Musketeers intervene but several of these alleged _empoisonneurs_ are snatched by the mob and lynched in the streets. Others are drowned in the Seine at the Ponte-Neuf. The rumor prevails among the less fortunate that this is a devious government plot; that this epidemic is nothing but an ingenious lie to cover killing off the poor using poisoned wine and water. Angry mobs threaten even the hospitals now, vowing revenge on the government for all the death and misery. None of the Musketeers would dare contradict their Captain, nor question his orders when called to suppress the rioting and arrest these wretched souls. But among themselves they all share the same uneasiness.

“Whom do we serve after all?” says Porthos, as they all sit around a large ancient wooden table at the court of their new barracks at the Louvre.

“The King, Porthos. We serve the King and we obey his orders.” Athos’ is the voice of reason. Aramis knows well that Athos disagrees. She can hear his thoughts clearly, rebelling against the idea of a King who abandons his people to such a fate. She can even feel his visceral disgust for the King’s decisions.

“Is he not supposed to be the King of the French? Is he not on the throne because he is a citizen king? Does he think he can ignore the plague and go about attending balls? Does he think that the cholera will only affect the poor?” Unlike Athos, Porthos does not care much about keeping his thoughts private.

“Careful, dear friend” says d’ Artagnan, “let us all be careful. I was in the King’s guard some nights ago. Guizot visited the King. I may be wrong but it seems to me that the order to move the Garrison closer to the Palais Royal came as a result of that visit. I know not what they talked about. But I know that Guizot is more than a minister; that he speaks for the Raven King. And it seems to me there is more to this move, even to this plague, than meets the eye. I regret to say it, but there may be some truth in the rumors.”

“I would not put anything beyond Guizot and his master,” mutters Porthos.

“No, indeed” Athos agrees, filling their glasses with wine. “And so fortuitous we are stationed right across the Palais Royal now. What an excellent way to keep us all under constant surveillance. You, first and foremost, my dear Magician friend! I hope you made sure Monsieur Segundus is safely out of Paris.”

“Indeed, I did” smiles Porthos. “He wrote in haste from Le Havre. He should be arriving to London any day now although he tells me the cholera has been in England already.”

Aramis remains silent. The tension in the Garrison, in the streets, among her friends is already taxing. It takes effort to keep all these voices quiet at the back of her mind. She now must stay at the Garrison with the rest of the regiment. They are in a state of emergency and Musketeers have to be ready for action at any time of day or night. Besides, the Bonacieux household is closed. The old merchant left Paris with his niece to Brittany and as far away from the city as possible. A foolish decision. The plague is everywhere by now, probably carried from Paris by fugitives like Bonacieux. And then there is Jacques. She has not seen him for days, since the regiment moved and she along with them. She misses his calm voice, his soft touch, the serenity of his presence, the mystery of his thoughts, which are silent to her. But most of all she longs to hold him, to know that he is safe. A feeling impossible to quell keeps warning her that he is not. He never came to meet her outside the Garrison as he had promised…

Porthos touches her shoulder lightly. “You look worried. I am sure he is safe,” he whispers, voicing her fears. “He is a vampire. He cannot die of the cholera.”

“I know. But I cannot shirk a feeling that something is wrong. I need to see him, Porthos. I need to get out of here.” 

He presses her hand secretly under the table. “I am in charge of the guard this evening. I can make you invisible. Just be back for the morning call.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I promise to return on time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Except for moving the Musketeer Garrison, which did not exist in 1832, all other events described in this chapter, including the cholera outbreak and its description, the riots at St. Denis and elsewhere in Paris, and the poisoning accusations, are historically accurate and based on primary sources for the period. The “Cholera Morbus” caricature is an actual historical one translated from French.


	21. Pure Knight

_And on his brest a bloodie Crosse he bore,  
_ _The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,  
_ _For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,  
_ _And dead as living ever him ador’d:  
_ _Upon his shield the like was also scor’d,  
_ _For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had:  
_ _Right faithful true he was in deede and word,  
_ _But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;  
_ _Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.  
_ _(Edmund Spencer, The Fairie Queene: Book One, Canto One, 1590_ )

D’ Artagnan stands in his Captain’s office. It is unusual to be summoned this late in the evening, alone. If this is about some secret mission, he reckons, the Captain would have summoned at least one of the others. Either Athos or Aramis, since Porthos is in charge of the night guard. Yet, here he is standing alone in the empty office.

A door opens. Not the regular door, but a smaller one, concealed perfectly by the paneling on the wall. The Captain enters followed by another man, d’ Artagnan has never seen before. His plain outfit is that of a clerk or civil servant, but his sober demeanor speaks of a man of clear purpose and his bright gaze denotes a man of rare intelligence.

“D’ Artagnan, my son,” Monsieur de Treville has never addressed him with such familiarity nor with so much feeling. “My dear boy, this is an old and beloved friend.”

The young man bows, “Monsieur, it is an honor to meet you.” He finds it odd the Captain has not mentioned the man’s name, but he decides it would be improper to inquire.

“Young Gascon, I hear you have received the Calling,” the man’s voice is solemn, exact.

D’ Artagnan is astonished by the pronouncement. Of course, he was able to see things his other friends could not. But then, were they all not enveloped in a fairy spell when that happened? He cannot think of himself as exceptional. In fact, he never thought of himself as anything but ordinary. Then there was Amiens: the effaced Labyrinth, the ethereal light, the unearthly chant, the words that appeared out of thin air… But how could Monsieur de Treville or this man know about that? He blushes. “I… I … do not think so, Monsieur. I am sorry to say, I do not know what that is…”

“You are an honest and unpretentious youth,” observes the man.

“Oh no!” interjects d’ Artagnan proudly. “I am a Gascon, Monsieur. Humility is not among our virtues and I have none. I simply state a fact. I was able to see and hear the fairy spell, indeed. But it seems to me there is nothing remarkable about that. We were all caught in it in some manner. I suspect it played tricks with us in different ways…”

“The fairy spell?” the man’s gaze is now severe, “what is this, Armand?” 

Monsieur de Treville was not looking forward to this moment. “My friend, it is a long story, now completely behind us. It is of no consequence…”

The man looks displeased. “Tell me young man,” he continues in a manner akin to an interrogation, “was your mother gifted with the same ability to see fairy spells?”

D’ Artagnan felt uncomfortable before but now the Gascon in him begins to rebel against this line of questioning. His mother’s memory is sacred and this nameless man raises it with little respect.

“My mother was a good Christian woman, Monsieur,” he says, making an effort to restrain the anger in his voice as his hand reaches for the hilt of his sword.

“And yet, my boy, she was burned at the stake…” the man continues in his deliberate, calculating, tone.

“Monsieur, I have endured your interrogation for the sake of my Captain, but I find your manner uncivil. Under any other circumstances, Monsieur, you would be already facing the point of my sword. Captain, with all due respect, I refuse to answer one more question by this man, whose name I do not even know.”

To d’ Artagnan’s surprise, the man’s demeanor changes immediately. “Is that the Gascon pride you promised me, Armand?” he says, a tentative smile across his austere features.

The Captain smiles back, “it could be worse…”

“Sit down, my young friend,” says the man now, inviting d’ Artagnan to a chair next to him. “I had to be certain. My name is Robert De La Mennais, and I am a member of the Society of Jesus…”

“A Jesuit?” d’ Artagnan looks first at his Captain and then at the man with apprehension. “The order has been banned since the Revolution. The Raven King declared you enemies of peace… You are supposed to be disbanded….”

“And yet, here we are, my young friend,” says the priest, seizing d’ Artagnan’s hand with unusual warmth and vigor for a man so composed. “Here we are, serving our true Lord, without fear, for our deaths, and many brothers have suffered and still suffer terrible ordeals in the clutches of that usurper in Rome, our deaths are inconsequential. What matters is to restore the Church back to its former glory. Yes, my friend. Here we are. And here you are…”

“I…?” d’ Artagnan looks at both men bewildered. “How am I involved in this?” He hesitates again. “I… I … have not received any Calling. I do not even know what that is… The fairy spell… it meant nothing.”

“I know nothing about a fairy spell, young man,” says the priest, “nor do I condone the involvement of a good Christian with that Kingdom of heathen, immoral, and unruly creatures. I speak of what happened at Amiens…”

D’ Artagnan is confused, shocked. How can this man know?

“The signs were there all around you. They were observed by many, friends and enemies alike…” continues the Jesuit.

“They saw the Labyrinth too?” d’ Artagnan stammers, still unable to comprehend the meaning of the man’s words.

“What Labyrinth, d’ Artagnan?” says the Captain.

“Remember, when you thought I was distracted and ordered me back to my position in the Cathedral, Monsieur?”

“D’ Artagnan, this is no time for secrets. You must tell us everything that happened to you at Amiens that day.”

The young man’s astonishing recital is followed by a prolonged silence. “There is no doubt, Robert” declares Monsieur de Treville, “now there can be do doubt…”

“Young man,” asks the priest in his scrutinizing manner, “please confirm one thing for me: are you certain you have heard that chanting before?” 

“I think so… No, I am certain… I am certain. I have been trying to remember when and where, but I cannot. I must have been very little, an infant perhaps. I think it was a lullaby my mother sung to me. Someone sung it to me…I am certain of it…”

The priest bows his head assuming the posture of prayer. “You are right, Armand,” he says after a while. “Who would have ever imagined this blessed day would arrive?”

D’ Artagnan is annoyed. All this vague talk of him as if he is not even present feels almost offensive. He stands up proudly. “I demand to know what is happening, Captain. I demand to know what all this double talk means. I refuse to be talked about in this manner.”

The Captain walks up to him placing his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Ever so often, my boy, at times of great urgency and peril, the Kingdom of Heaven seeks a champion among men. Knights like St. George, Sir Galahad, Sir Percival…”

“Me? Why would this even happen now?”

“Because, young man” says the priest, “because there is a fierce war fought in the Other Lands. We know little of its violence, although if this plague is any indication, it has now reached our world. The Angels care little for wars among heathen fairy kingdoms and the kingdoms of Hell. At least that is what we assumed until now. But it appears they have anointed their champion. In doing so they have declared themselves a part of this war. It is a blessed day young man. For it means that our fight will no longer be waged by us alone…”

“Messieurs…do you realize how this sounds? I was raised a good Christian. This sounds like mere superstition. It sounds like that so-called prophecy of the pure knight. It is absurd for good Christian intelligent men to think in this manner…”

“And it is a sin to doubt one’s divine duty, young man,” says the priest sternly. “You may or may not be the chosen champion, it is true. You may be one of many. We know not the will of Heaven nor can we question it. It is your duty to prepare. You need a good fencing master immediately. Someone who can teach you discipline young man, for that is a serious failing in you…”

D’ Artagnan decides not to be offended this time. The priest’s argument is not without reason or merit. Still, he tells himself, he does not feel special at all.

“I suggest one of my Musketeers, Robert,” says Monsieur de Treville. “His name is Athos. A magnificent swordsman, the best in France. A man of the utmost integrity and discipline. I cannot think of a better man to teach our young Gascon by example…”

“Then it is settled,” says the priest, standing up and walking towards the secret door. “I expect regular reports on your progress, young man. And I expect you to fulfill your divine duty, for the glory of our Lord.”


	22. Acheron (notes 1 and 2)

_Because I could not stop for Death_  
_He kindly stopped for me_  
_The Carriage held but just Ourselves_  
_And Immortality_

_(Emily Dickinson, J712, 1890)_

Aramis presses on her horse through the city crowds and towards Rochefort’s residence at the Faubourg St. Germain(3). It is almost midnight but the streets of Paris are crowded with people. Many sick. Mobs rioting, attacking guards and Musketeers, looting closed stores. She has removed her Musketeer pauldron and pulled her hair up inside her hat. She looks like a young man, going about his business. The part of the suburb where Rochefort lives is peaceful. As if the pestilence and violence ruling the rest of the city is but a distant nightmare. She knocks on the door. Once. A second time. Several times.

“Bernard!” she shouts, “Bernard! It is me! Open the door!”

The door creaks open after some while. Bernard, the old servant, peeks behind the door, “Please Mademoiselle, leave!”

She pushes past him “I will do no such thing. Where is he?”

“Please, Mademoiselle…” The old man looks pale, haggard, and something else… terrified? Aramis does not have to try at all. The old man’s thoughts resonate in her mind, one word in particular: death.

She runs upstairs, into the salon and then to the bedchamber. Trudging behind her, the old man stops her before she opens the door. “Please, Mademoiselle. He asked specifically that you do not come near him. It is the cholera.”

She stops short, enraged. “What are you talking about, Bernard? He is a vampire. Or don’t you know? Vampires cannot get infected with the cholera…”

The old man is confused. “But Mademoiselle, what else can it be?”

She flings the door open.

Rochefort is lying in the bed, sheets covered in blood. His entire body is convulsing in agony, his eyes opened, glassy, bleeding… 

“Jacques…” she cries. She motions to touch his hand but the old man stops her again.

“No Mademoiselle! Do not touch him. Any human touch, burns his skin like hot iron…I fear I am responsible for these…” he says showing her open, unhealing sores around Rochefort’s wrists.

“We did not know what to do… I did not know what to do… None of us can touch him. We cannot move him. We tried to take him closer to the ground, in the cellar, while he was still conscious. He said it would help. It did not. It made things even worse. But if he does not sleep close to the ground Mademoiselle, if he stays here like this, he will get weaker, keep bleeding and…” the old man sinks into a chair exhausted.

Aramis feels her knees give way too. She feels she cannot breathe. She feels her heart racing, her eyes filling with tears. She refuses to let any tears flow. Not now, she tells herself. She needs to make sure Jacques knows she is here. To know that if this is his second death, he is not alone. She reaches out and only slightly touches him with her fingers. His skin is burning, as if he is on fire from within. Contrary to what the old servant said, her touch leaves no burning marks on his skin nor does he appear to feel pain. She strokes his hand, “I am here,” she says, “you are not alone, I am here.”

A strange raspy sound escapes his lips. He is trying to speak but the blood seeping from his mouth makes it impossible to form words.

Aramis, more certain now than before, places her hand on his burning forehead. There is no indication that she is hurting him. Instead, he closes his eyes as if her touch gives him comfort.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Two days, Mademoiselle. Two days and three nights,” mutters the old servant.

“We need to clean him up, Bernard,” she sounds practical, businesslike. Musketeer training takes over. It dulls the despair that suffocates her. “I seem to be able to touch him, so you need to bring me water. Boil it first and then let it get cold. And I need clean sheets… and throw away everything he wears. Burn it.”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” the old man hurries to the door calling servants and giving them instructions. They all look frightened. Some do not dare enter the room.

“This is not the cholera, Bernard,” says Aramis. “Explain it to the household. Believe me, I have been encountering it for days now. This is something altogether different…”

There is a glimmer in the old man’s dim eyes, “different, Mademoiselle? Could he be poisoned like those wretched souls at St. Denis?”

“I cannot imagine he would foolishly feed on cholera victims, do you?”

“Oh Mademoiselle,” the old man sounds offended, shocked at the mere thought, “the Comte does not feed on hapless humans. It would be vulgar, undignified, for someone of his standing and status. He is provided with the very best vintage…”

“Provided? By whom?”

“Through a network of trusted friends. I do not really know their names Mademoiselle. I just receive the provisions.”

“And yet, one of those friends may have poisoned him. Where is the bottle he drunk from three nights ago? Do you still have it?”

“Oh that was different, I think… Mademoiselle… There was a gift. I know because I received it with a note. Wait…” he says leaving the room.

Aramis looks at Rochefort’s distorted face. His eyes are now closed but his entire body is shaking and he is trying to breathe. His chest heaves as he gasps for air. Aramis did not know vampires could breathe, but he clearly needs to. She gently lifts his head, placing him softly higher on the pillows. She notices again that her touch gives him momentary relief. “I am here,” she whispers, “I am here and I swear I will not let you die.”

A young servant walks in with towels and a large basin with water. Aramis knows exactly what to do. These past few years in the Garrison, she has seen many wounded men, and has been known to mend quite a few of them, when surgeons are scarce. The young servant is understandably fearful but he is intelligent and efficient.

Aramis carefully removes Rochefort’s bloodstained clothes. His skin has burning marks where his servants touched him. She dips a soft linen towel in the cool water and tries it tentatively on his skin. It leaves no marks and he seems to welcome the sensation. “We can do this Jacques,” she says, “just one very small step at a time.” She washes his face, his blonde hair soaked in blood. She washes his feverish body carefully, noticing that it gives him relief. By the end, he is calmer, his breathing less labored, the convulsions less violent and far apart, the bleeding from every pore less profuse. “We will do this Jacques,” she whispers kissing his burning forehead, “you will not die and I’ll be damned if I let you.” She is not sure this is the truth but at this moment she must believe it.

The old servant enters the bedroom with a half empty bottle and a note in his hand. “I found it, Mademoiselle!”

The note is crumpled and stained with blood. That is how it all began.

 _This delectable vintage…_ Aramis reads quickly… _a gift to celebrate the victories of our friends in the Other Lands._ She is interested in one thing only. A name:  _Pierre Gaspard Pelletier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In Greek mythology Acheron is one of the rivers of Hades (Underworld.) In Virgil, Charon ferries the newly dead across this river to bring them to the underworld. 
> 
> (2) Vampire biology in this chapter is mostly based on the True Blood universe with some adjustments not only for plot purposes but primarily because that universe is not entirely consistent or clear on some points. Vampires in the universe created for this story here can breathe. 
> 
> (3) Faubourg St. Germain: historic district of Paris. During the Restoration of the Bourbon dynasty (period before this story begins) this Faubourg (=suburb) was the most exclusive high nobility district of Paris. During the period of the July Monarchy (this story), the suburb gradually lost its political power and many nobles started retreating to their estates in the country. It remained however the center of upper class social life. It makes sense that an old (ancient) nobleman and very wealth man like the Comte de Rochefort, who also seems to have been involved in politics since the time he became a vampire, would live in this part of Paris.


	23. Dark Prince

_His Magic marks the faces of mountains,_   
_His enemies freeze, their blood stopt in their veins,_   
_He came to them as howling wolves,_   
_He came to them as hissing snakes,_   
_The sphinx repeated His Riddle so His enemies vanish in their ignorance,_   
_Lord of the World who commands the beasts of the earth._

_(Incantation of the Raven King, Stanza 4) (1)_

Aramis did not return for the morning call.

Instead, Athos, Porthos, and d’ Artagnan are summoned urgently to the Captain’s office.

“I shall tell you what I know, which is little.” Despite his vexed demeanor the Captain’s voice intimates deep concern. “Aramis left the Garrison in the night. If that was not enough, she sent a brief note early this morning. She asks for a leave of absence to tend a sick relative… I am not sure what this even means…”

“Could she have been taken ill, Captain?” says d’ Artagnan anxiously.

“Captain, if I may…” interjects Porthos for he knows well the Captain blames him at equal measure. “Captain, I am responsible for this.”

“You are, Monsieur” and you will be officially reprimanded as is the regular procedure. “You were in charge of the guards last night.”

But Porthos values honesty, especially to his Captain. “No Captain. I meant that I let her go.”

It is Athos’ turn to be vexed. “You let her go? Where? By herself, in the middle of the night, in a city teaming with sick people and lynching mobs? How far did the two of you think she could go with a Musketeer pauldron on her sleeve? We are not exactly liked lately…”

“Athos, please, be careful what you say,” says the Captain. “There are certain things which I may not hear.”

“Captain, Athos,” Porthos’ voice is solemn and calm, “I believe I know where she went. If I have your permission Captain, and since I am responsible for this as much as she is, I will go and make sure she is safe.”

The Captain nods in agreement. “There is more to her message, Messieurs. She asks that we seek out Monsieur Pelletier. She tells me he may have something to do with the alleged poisonings…”

“Pelletier, the banker?” Athos sounds doubtful. “This makes no sense. Monsieur Pelletier is a respectable businessman. His political views are well known too…”

“He is the leader of the Lycian Brotherhood, Athos,” says the Captain, “whatever his politics, his first and foremost loyalty is to his pack.”

“And he was behind the attack at Amiens,” adds d’ Artagnan. 

“It is settled then,” says the Captain. “Porthos find Aramis and make sure she is back here in the Garrison where she belongs. Athos and d’ Artagnan, it is time to pay a visit to the fine Monsieur Pelletier. Let us see who is behind all this unrest.”

“Captain,” interjects d’ Artagnan. “I may not be the best person for this mission. As you well know… I had dealings with Monsieur Pelletier’s pack before…”

“Indeed! And that is why you are well suited for it,” adds the Captain.

All three bow and motion to leave.

“Athos, d’ Artagnan remain a moment,” says de Treville, “there is one more matter I must discuss with you both.”

D’ Artagnan has no doubt it has to do with the secret meeting in the Captain’s office the night before. He does not want Athos to know. He does not want anyone to know. It all sounds pretentious and foolish: “Here is d’ Artagnan the Chosen One!” How ridiculous this will appear to a man like Athos! He dreads the moment the Captain will reveal such a thing to his friend. And then there is that part about being trained by Athos. Truth be told, Athos is the best swordsman d’ Artagnan has ever met. But is there any real need for training? D’ Artagnan cannot see that there is. And what was all that about discipline? He has as much as is necessary already. Athos is so restrained. He barely speaks. D’ Artagnan finds the man’s solemnity intimidating. He would so much have preferred Porthos. If I must be trained, let it be with a friend I feel more comfortable, he tells himself. Of course he imagines Abbé Robert would immediately object to the idea. Jesuits are not exactly admirers of Magic or of its servants.

“Athos,” I believe strongly our young Gascon here has shown great potential for a career in the Musketeers,” says the Captain. “It is time to further his training and skills with the sword. Discipline above all. He is a good Musketeer, but we have to afford him the training to become a great one. I cannot think of a better example of the Musketeer spirit and ethos than you. That is why I ask you to consider becoming his mentor.” D’ Artagnan marvels at the Captain’s ingenious dissimulation. He must learn how to do this some day, he tells himself.

Athos bows with a faint smile. “I would be honored Captain, if my young friend agrees.”

“Then, consider this mission to Monsieur Pelletier’s fortress, a part of the training Messieurs,” says the Captain.

Monsieur de Treville is right. Monsieur Pelletier’s majestic home at the Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin(2), occupies several blocks. The man and his large family live in what is almost a fortress, with their personal guard, an arsenal of weapons, and an army of sons well trained in the art of the hunt and the art of war.

The servant who admits them wears a lavish silk and velvet outfit, by far more exquisite than any servant d’ Artagnan and Athos have ever seen, even those who work at the palace. He bows politely and silently leads them to a spacious office, the walls made of elaborately carved wooden panels, and the floor covered with thick oriental rugs. Two large windows provide ample light, as does a large fireplace with a fire burning although it is a warm spring day. Everything in the room, invokes the sense of luxury and sophistication, and denotes affluence. D’ Artagnan notices that the wooden carvings on the paneling form a long relief with vivid images of wolves, hunters, riders, fortresses and cities, ports and armadas of sailing ships.

“It is the story of our people emerging from the frozen steppes centuries ago,” says a voice from the other side of the room. A familiar voice, d’ Artagan thinks. Still, both men are surprised. They thought they were alone. But standing behind them, at the opposite side of the room, is a very young woman. A most peculiar young woman.

She wears a dark blue velvet dress, trimmed around the neck with exquisite white lace. She moves with swanlike grace, slowly and deliberately, her hands and face white as porcelain, and her features as delicate as those of a Renaissance sculpture. Her hair, plaited elaborately around her face, is white. Not fair, but stark white. And so, Athos realizes, are the pupils of her eyes.

“Monsieur, d’ Artagnan,” says the girl in a melodious voice. “We meet again it seems.”

D’ Artaganan bows politely, “Mademoiselle Pelletier, indeed. Under better circumstances for us both I hope…”

She smiles a charming smile, “Please, call me Fleur. My father has been very eager to meet you, Monsieur. And here you are! It is not a coincidence of course. None of this is a coincidence.”

“I have seriously displeased your father more than once, Mademoiselle Fleur,” says d’ Artagnan. “Your brothers too. I fear his eagerness may be well justified.”

“You mistake my words, Monsieur, as did my father the first time you and I met. This time of course is different. This time he is wiser and you are ready… I have kept a message for you for sometime now…”

“A message from whom?”

“Your mother,” muses the girl in a singing voice. “She speaks of the lullaby the angels sing. She loves to sing it. She is humming it right now. If you listen carefully, you will hear it…But beware, she says, beware of the Great Winged Snake…”

“Mademoiselle, pardon me…” Athos interjects completely bemused. The girl stops short as if woken from a trance, and it is only then, that Athos realizes, that she is blind.

“Is this your friend, Monsieur d’ Artagnan,” the girl is completely still, as if frozen where she is standing.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, this is my friend Athos. He is a Musketeer, just like me.”

“No he is not.” The girl’s voice is no longer melodious. Her words sound like falling icicles. “It is a different master he serves; neither mine nor yours. Powerless to take command of his own destiny. A grave danger in his ignorance and darkness to us all…” 

“Mademoiselle,” says Athos, “you do not even know me…”

Slowly, the girl walks up to him, her dead eyes staring into his, her voice raspy, “I know you too well my Dark Prince,” she whispers and turns away silently leaving the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) For the complete Incantation of the Raven King and Mr. Segundus’ view regarding its significance, see Part I.  
> (2) Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin: In the 18th and 19th c it was believed that this neighborhood of Paris had “healthier air.” While aristocrats lived on the left bank in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, most of the newly wealthy chose to live in new neighborhoods that were constructed during the Restoration; e.g. the Chaussée-d'Antin was the home of the bankers Rothschilds, Laffitte who inspired the character of Monsieur Pelletier.


	24. An Invitation

_"That night, the balls were more crowded than ever; hilarious laughter all but drowned the louder music; one grew hot in the chahut, a fairly unequivocal dance, and gulped all kinds of ices and other cold drinks--when suddenly the merriest of the harlequins felt a chill in his legs, took off his mask, and to the amazement of all revealed a violet-blue face. It was soon discovered that this was no joke; the laughter died, and several wagon loads were driven directly from the ball to the Hotel-Dieu, the main hospital, where they arrived in their gaudy fancy dress and promptly died, too...[T]hose dead were said to have been buried so fast that not even their checkered fool's clothes were taken off them; and merrily as they lived they now lie in their graves.  
_ _(Heinrich Heine, 1832, Journals: Death at the Carnival)_ (1)

 

Porthos’ first stop is Madame Ancelot’s(2) house at the Rue de Seine(3). He knows he needs advice from someone wiser before he proceeds further.

Over coffee, Madame Ancelot listens carefully to what happened since the night when he accepted Guizot’s challenge in her salon. She knows about Amiens of course. All Paris does.

“Answering to Guizot’s challenge was reckless and foolhardy, Paul,” she says. “What urged you to act in this manner, you, such a reasonable man, and after a lifetime of careful concealment? You exposed yourself to danger. You exposed your friends. You exposed me and my guests…”

“Anaïs said the same thing in her letter. She was angry…” he says looking downcast.

“Not angry, Paul my love. Concerned. Worried. Just as I am. About you. These are dangerous times. This plague is not what it appears to be, for that I am sure. People talk of a long and vicious war in the Other Lands. A war that is now here…”

“Virginie, please tell me you do not believe these rumors about poisonings…” he objects.

“Your friend Aramis does. And I have heard enough to give her suspicions credit. But Monsieur Pelletier has nothing to do with such plots. Of that I am certain. He is a trustworthy friend. He is a close friend of Monsieur de Rochefort. He is no friend of Guizot or the King but attacking you at Amiens in broad daylight after the Easter mass? Poisoning wine and water in the slums? These things are below his dignity and not consistent with any of his actions so far. What possible reason would a man of such influence like Pelletier have to order these atrocious acts? I would not put it past Guizot to have plotted the entire thing, Paul. I am not sure where his loyalties lie, to himself most probably. Monsieur Pelletier affords an easy target. How fortuitous if the Brotherhood’s assets and connections were to pass to Guizot and his allies, no? Especially, if, as rumor has it, they are losing their war.”

Porthos sits back in his chair. He was right to begin here. His mind is clearer now, his thoughts less confounded. Madam Ancelot always has this effect on him. He smiles, “My love, you have a unique ability to see through the most puzzling situations, and I seem to have the unique ability to muddle them further….”

She stands up, and kisses him fondly, laughing. “I have missed you, my darling Paul…”

She picks up a card from a silver tray on a side table and hands it to him. It is an invitation to a masque ball, that same evening at the Théâtre des Variétés.

He looks at it with bewilderment. “A ball? At this time? People crowded in a restricted space?”

She smiles an inscrutable smile. “You may be surprised. Cholera Balls are all the rage these days. What can be more French than to dispel the phantom of death with drink, dance, and joy? Laugh at the face of it? Did you know there is a cholera-waltz? It is played at every salon from here to the Palais Royal, although it is too demure compared to the cholera-gallopade.”

“You are not serious….You are not seriously going?” he is still perplexed.

“No my darling, of course not. But you are. What better place to continue your inquiries? There is a vampire you should seek. I have never met him but many in my salon take advantage of his discreet services. His name is Grimaud(4)…” 

“What services?”

“Oh this and that. He seems to have all sorts of connections and a long hand. Or is it claw? Mostly provisions for a certain taste of recreation…”

“Vampire blood? A vampire, selling vampire blood!” Porthos is disgusted.

“Oh, he would sell anything for a very good price, I hear. No scruples. But the answers you seek are to be found in men like him, not Monsieur Pelletier.”

“Why would he speak to me…?”

“He will not, my darling. But who better equipped to get answers than a powerful Magician who may not only protect himself from pestilence but has a trick or two up his sleeve to get the answers he needs?”

The door opens and a servant walks in. “Madame, the Baron Dupuytren (5) is here for your appointment.”

“Dr. Dupuytren? Virginie, are you feeling ill?”

“Oh not at all my love,” she laughs. “We all contribute to the Baron’s efforts at the Hôtel Dieu. I cannot stand the sight of disease, and I am no Sister of Charity. All I can contribute comes from my purse. He is the best chance we have against this pestilence. I will introduce you!” she exclaims joyfully.

The Baron Dupuytren is a solemn man. Disapproving but businesslike. “Our cause suffers daily defeats, Madame. This disease will get much worse before it gets better. That is its natural course. But we could perhaps contain it more efficiently if this unruly city was better governed. I hope I give no offense, Monsieur,” he says looking sternly at Porthos who signals that none is taken. “And I do not mean the wretches who are destined to live in squalor and ignorance. I mean those of us who engage in reckless and extravagant exhibitions of defiance. Cholera festivals! I hear that is the latest folly among our peers! Even the King is invited….”

“I whole-heartedly agree, my dear Baron,” exclaims Madame Ancelot, “such idiotic folly. But tell me what you make of the rumors that there have been poisonings?” 

The doctor sits back in his chair, clearly thinking his answer thoroughly. “I have seen no evidence for any such thing,” he replies carefully. “Those who cross our door at the Hôtel Dieu, die of the cholera.”

“Are you certain, Monsieur?” Porthos insists. “Do you have a chance to examine every one? One by one?”

“No, of course not. Let me rephrase. None of the patients I have examined so far were victims of anything but the cholera…” 

“And how easy would it be to use this epidemic as a cover for something else? Murders perhaps?”

Baron Dupuytren looks at Porthos with interest now. He chooses his words carefully. “Any epidemic of this magnitude provides ample cover. I cannot confirm or deny that such atrocities may be committed. I simply have no proof.”

He stands up and bows politely. “Madame, your generous contribution is invaluable during this dark moment for our city and our nation. Monsieur, it has been a fascinating discussion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is an actual quote by the German poet Heinrich Heine who was a witness to the events and to the cholera. This event is confirmed by other witnesses. Heine’s descriptions of the streets of Paris in this period, and the hospital Hôtel-Dieu were used, among other sources, to provide the background for this part of the story. 
> 
> (2) Marguerite-Louise Virginie Chardon Ancelot (1792–1875), was a writer, playwright, and painter. Her salon and circle included some of the most prominent intellectuals and politicians in Paris. See also, Part I. 
> 
> (3) Rue de Seine: Madame Ancelot’s house was located at the Rue de Seine. 
> 
> (4) Grimaud: The character of Grimaud in this story is derived from the BBC series The Musketeers (season 3) and not from Dumas’ novels where a character with the same name is the devoted old servant of Athos. 
> 
> (5) Baron Guillaume Dupuytren (5 October 1777 – 8 February 1835) was a French anatomist and military surgeon. He practiced at the Hôtel-Dieu and was there during the cholera outbreak. The version of him here is fictionalized.


	25. Temptation

_“Myosotis: The author of “Letters to Sophie” correctly notes that since ancient times this flower has symbolized true and undying love, remembering a beloved who is far away or deceased; it stands for a love that endures through time”  
__(Le langage des fleurs, par Madame Charlotte de Latour [pseud. of_ _Cortambert, Louise,] Paris, Audot 1834, 3 rd edition_.) (1)

 _To express love these flowers bloom_  
_Their language is a word full of charm._  
_In the hand of the lovers they say_  
 _"Love me, do not forget me."_  
_(Louis-Aimè Martin, 1822,_ _Lettres à Sophie sur la physique, la chimie et l'histoire naturelle **,**_ _Lefèvre)_

The visit to Monsieur Pelletier’s fortress as the Captain called it proves otherwise fruitless. Monsieur Pelletier is not available but his lawyer, a certain Monsieur Lupin-Hargier meets them instead. “My client is a busy man, Messieurs. He has no time for idle talk and vague accusations originating from the lynching mobs in the street. Unless you bring specific charges against him supported by evidence there is nothing for us to discuss.”

Athos is not even listening. D’ Artagnan has never seen him so distracted before. He knows not what Mademoiselle Fleur whispered to him but whatever it was, Athos did not take it well. “Shall we train with swords?” he asks his friend in an attempt to make conversation, as they ride silently back towards the Garrison.

“Perhaps later. For the moment permit me to go for a drink by myself,” is the only reply Athos gives, leaving his friend and heading towards the Rue Saint-Honoré.

D’ Artagnan continues alone. It is now early afternoon. He wishes he could visit Monsieur Bonacieux’s emporium as he used to. He misses that daily routine. Most of all he misses Constance. He misses the glow of her amber eyes and the small dimples in her rosy cheeks when she smiles. He misses the sound of her voice. How she used to sing to herself as she moved around in her uncle’s shop. The gentle curve of her long neck. He hopes, he prays, that she is well and happy. That she is safe. That she has not met another…

“Monsieur d’ Artagnan?” an unknown man in livery waits for him at the Garrison gate.

“Yes?”

The man hands him an envelope and a carved wooden box, its lid decorated with mother of pearl in the shape of a delicate purple flower: a forget-me-not. “You are invited to a masque ball at the Théâtre des Variétés at 9 this evening, Monsieur. My mistress expects you there dressed as Sir Lancelot, the golden knight. I have already left the package with your costume in your quarters, but these here I was asked to deliver into your hands.”

D’ Artagnan is confounded. “A masque ball? Invited? Who is your mistress?”

The servant bows deeply. “She will be dressed as the Lady Guinevere, Monsieur. She expects you to uphold the honorable names of your regiment and your family and neither reveal her kind invitation nor make her wait.” 

Alone in his barrack quarters, d’ Artagnan admires the fine golden costume of the knight Sir Lancelot(2), with its fur and velvet trimmings, perfectly fitted, as if made specifically for him.

D’ Artagnan opens the box first. There is an invitation with his name inscribed in gold leaf, and a gold mask. He opens the letter next.

 

 

> _Dear Monsieur d’ Artagnan,_
> 
> _You may think me bold but these days, when death is imminent, longing and waiting are the obsolete remnants of happier bygone times. I have noted your presence often at court, and hoped for an opportunity to converse with you. The opportunity never presented itself, and the thought that it might never occur, fills me with deep sadness. But I shall resist this sadness, as I resist the fear instilled in our hearts these last terrible days. I hope you join me in a joyous and festive occasion tonight, and that you grant me the pleasure of your company._
> 
> _A devoted friend,_

The letter is not signed. Instead it concludes with an elaborate monogram that looks like the letter A, entangled in the leaves of a beautiful flower, another forget-me-not, just like the one on the box.

He thinks of Constance. Would he go, if she were here?

But she is not…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The language of flowers was a significant aspect of aesthetics and philosophical/intellectual trends since at least the 1820s and during the entire Victorian era. The first quote is adapted from French (summary of a chapter rather than literal translation). The second is simply translated. In the Musketeers BBC series the forget-me-not is Milady’s signature flower. This is not part of Dumas’ character of Milady. Myosotis of course is the name for the flower known as forget-me-not. 
> 
> (2) Guinevere and Lancelot: the characters were important/used often in poetry and art of this period. It makes sense that Milady would use this popular but also accurate metaphor/irony given the Athos-Milady-d’Artagnan triangle she is setting up.


	26. A Most Brilliant Student

_Cherished Melanie!  
_ _Be blessed!  
_ _Your miracles are sweet:  
_ _You calm the suffering  
_ _You give hope  
_ _God is with you!  
_ _(Francois Guillaume Jean Stanislaus Andrieux, Hymne á sainte Melanie, ca. 1830,_ _transl. from French)_

 

Porthos finds Aramis sitting alone at the grand staircase in the entrance of Rochefort’s house. Her clothes are covered in blood, her face and hair too. She does not seem to recognize him.

“Aramis, are you injured?” he cries upon seeing her and hurries towards her. 

She signals “no” but does not speak.

“Is it the Comte? What is all this blood?”

She remains silent, blank.

“Aramis, you must speak to me! I am here to help you. We are all worried about you. The Captain wants you back. Your friends want you back…”

“I am not going back…” she whispers, “I cannot…” she gasps, as if the words are chocking her. She is trembling.

Porthos removes his cloak and places it on her shoulders. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her forehead softly. “Speak to me, I am here to help you. I will do anything you ask…”

She looks at him as if she sees him for the first time. “Porthos?”

“Yes, Porthos. Your old friend, the one with the card tricks…” his voice is pleasant, soothing. “Tell me what happened.”

“Porthos?” she repeats and grabs his hand. Her hands are ice cold.

“Porthos…Porthos…” She raises her eyes to look at him. Tears are streaming down her blood stained face. “Porthos…” She buries her head in his chest, sobbing silently.

They remain thus for some time, seated at the grand staircase, until she slowly recovers. As Porthos strokes her hair, her breathing eases, she is no longer trembling, she stops crying.

“He is poisoned,” she says looking up for the first time and speaking in her usual, composed, voice that Porthos knows well. “A gift from Monsieur Pelletier.”

“Aramis, it cannot be Monsieur Pelletier…” he interjects and she looks at him with anger.

“Do you know this for a fact?”

“No. But Athos and d’ Artagnan are working on it. What I do know and understand is that it cannot be. There is some plot afoot and Monsieur Pelletier could be just another victim.” He pauses for a moment, afraid to inquire, lest he causes her more pain, “How is the Comte?"

“ He suffers so," she says, "It is unbearable… I cannot ease any of it…” her eyes fill with tears once more but she wipes them hastily with the back of her hand, irritated by her weakness.

“Have you called a doctor?” he asks and immediately realizes the absurdity of his question.

“No doctor would ever come to see him. Besides, they are all occupied with the cholera…”

“Well, we lose nothing if we try, do we?” he smiles a loving, wide smile. “I met the best of them this very morning. Let us pay him a visit.”

She motions to stand up and notices the dismal state of her clothes and face. “I look terrible,” she says.

“Keep my cloak on. Believe me where we go no one cares.” He leads her quickly to the door. “We are going to the Hôtel Dieu(1).”

The hospital is exactly as Porthos had anticipated. Litters with patients brought to the front door, one behind the other, each followed by a small crowd of relatives bidding farewell to their loved ones, some weeping, but most of them composed, silent, dignified. Masked by the crowd, Aramis and Porthos manage to slide in, unseen by the orderlies at the door, for no one but the sick and doctors are permitted inside. They quickly ascend the large winding staircase to the first floor. It is a women’s ward, one long dark low room, with about a hundred beds placed in rows, scarcely two feet apart, all but a few occupied. A Sister of Charity wearing a white cap and a red cross on her girdle stops them. “Where are you going?” her voice is stern, resolute.

“We are looking for Doctor Dupuytren,” says Porthos, “it is very urgent.”

“The doctor is too busy Monsieur. He does not have time for house calls or personal consultations.”

“Please, Sister,” cries Aramis, “please, just for a moment, just to talk to him…”

“Sister, perhaps you could take over with the patient in bed 56 and I could help here,” interjects a woman. She is not a Sister of Charity. She wears an oversized apron and gloves similar to those worn by the orderlies. She is no older than thirty, her curly fair hair pulled neatly from her face, which is adorned by the most intelligent pair of bright blue eyes.

“Who might you be, Madame?” asks Porthos.

“Someone who has no business being here, that is who she is,” replies the disapproving nun disappearing into the ward.

The woman removes her gloves and smiles to both. “I am a student of medicine.”

“Medicine?” Porthos is surprised.

“Why not? Your friend here is a Musketeer. I know you Mademoiselle d’ Herblay,” says the lady, smiling. “I have seen you march with your regiment often.”

“You have me at a disadvantage then” replies Aramis quietly.

“I am Melanie d’ Hervilly(2),” says the young woman.

“But of course!” cries Porthos. “I should have known you, Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly, my sincerest apologies! I am the Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, a friend of Monsieur Lethier who called you his most brilliant student. I saw your paintings at the Louvre not long ago. My condolences for your recent double loss. Both Monsieur Lethier and Monsieur Gohier will be sorely missed. You are a student of medicine now?”

“I am doing my best,” she says, “given what is permitted to women. But I am determined to practice medicine one day.” 

“We must see Doctor Dupuytren, Mademoiselle. It is imperative that we do. It is not about the cholera. A friend, a dear friend of Mademoiselle d’ Herblay has been poisoned you see…”

“Poisoned? So it is true… Not that I ever doubted it!” exclaims the lady. “Is he still alive?”

“Well, here is the complication, Mademoiselle,” says Porthos, “the friend in question is the Comte de Rochefort…” 

“The vampire?” she looks astonished. “Vampires can be poisoned then? Oh, I fear you will never see the doctor, and even if you do, he will never condescend to examine your friend. He is not well disposed towards most of humankind, let alone Others.”

Aramis lowers her eyes. She thinks of Jacques suffering alone in that room with no one but an old servant at his side. She feels guilt and the urge to leave immediately, to be back at his side, rather than exchanging vacuous pleasantries in this sordid place. “Porthos, let us go back, we are wasting our time,” she whispers pulling his sleeve.

“…But if you do not object,” continues Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly, “I could visit him instead. I am not a doctor, it is true, but I have a good understanding of medicine. And I understand the loss of a beloved friend, Mademoiselle d’ Herblay,” she adds.  

There is kindness in her eyes, and the compassion of someone who has experienced the same despair now crushing Aramis’ heart. “Please, Mademoiselle,” she says, “please, follow us then!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Hôtel-Dieu: the description of the hospital, the conditions, and the ward during the cholera epidemic are all based on a number of primary sources. 
> 
> (2) Marie Mélanie d'Hervilly Gohier Hahnemann (2 February 1800 – May 1878) was a French homeopathic physician (first female homeopathic physician.) In 1835 she married Samuel Hahnemann who is considered the father of homeopathy. She was a talented artist (exhibited at the Louvre). She became interested in homeopathy during the cholera epidemic of 1832. Although she is fictionalized here, all details mentioned are historically accurate. The quote used at the beginning of the chapter is written for her and was translated from French.


	27. Blue Harlequins (Note 1)

_“The employment of multiple spells at the same time requires significant practice and planning on the part of the Practicing Magician. For spells that include opposite elements may end up nullifying each other, or contradict each other, neither of which ever leads to the desired outcome. The same is true with spells that incorporate elements, which are too similar. In those cases again, both spells will be nullified, since as the saying goes “too much of a good thing is not always good.” An invisibility spell and a masking spell for instance share several common elements. It is important therefore for the Practicing Magician to set up a clear order for the use of each spell, beginning with the most specific and ending with the most inclusive. In this case, since the invisibility spell is forged with a more generic set of expectations, it should be used last, if combined with a masking spell.”_

_(_ _Paul M. Baron du Vallon_ _de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, 1855, A Handbook of Practical Magic, Hachette, Paris.)_

 

A large crowd is already assembled in front of the colonnaded entrance at the Théâtre des Variétés in Montmartre. They are masked, dressed in colorful costumes, mostly grotesque caricatures of historical and political personalities: Marie Antoinette- sans-tête, Bonaparte, Lafayette, Thomas Jefferson, even Guizot makes an appearance with a mask that is not at all flattering. Porthos waits patiently. He wears no costume. Instead, he has used a masking spell that makes him look like a fat old cleric and has enveloped himself in a second protective spell that shields from pestilence, disease, and the evil eye. He keeps a third, special invisibility spell that disguises one to a shadow, close at hand, in case he needs to escape unseen.

He is particularly proud of perfecting the latter. It was mentioned in Mr. Strange’s book, although Mr. Strange never used it himself. Instead it was used by the notorious John Childermass to spy on Mr. Strange. The flaw in that original spell was that the Magician always had to make sure the shadow falls in the correct manner otherwise any careful observer may detect the discrepancy. But Porthos perfected the spell some years ago while trying to find a way to make certain cards invisible within one’s playing hand. In his version, the shadow always casts itself correctly, attaching itself to different objects in the surrounding environment. Perfecting anything from Mr. Strange’s book fills Porthos with great pride indeed. 

He enters the theater after some time. There are at least a thousand people already in the hall, and more are flooding in. Madame Ancelot was right. This is the fashionable place to be in Paris. A man walks among the guests on stilts, dressed as the personification of the cholera, with an armor that looks like a skeleton and eyes painted red, as if bloodied. His costume has all kinds of other atrocious appendages, all attributes of the disease. Somewhere an orchestra is playing a vivacious tune, the cholera-gallopade. The hall is hot, suffocating. Porthos moves along with difficulty, until he spots Monsieur Dartois, the theater director. 

“You must be elated, dear Monsieur Dartois (2),” he says. “This evening is already a success!”

“Oh, thank you, Monsieur! A great success indeed! But forgive me I do not recall your name?”

“I am Monsieur Jauffret! How quaint that you do not remember me! Why, we met not a fortnight ago, at Madame de Girardin’s (3) salon!”

“Oh! Of course! I remember it well,” Monsieur Dartois lies.

“Delphine is such a dear child, is she not, Monsieur? And such an innate talent with writing and expression!” 

“Yes, indeed, indeed!” retorts Monsieur Dartois with excitement. “I was looking forward to seeing her and Monsieur de Girardin this evening, but she sent word, they made other arrangements.”

“A pity indeed, Monsieur Dartois,” says Porthos. “For all of Paris seems to be here tonight, and one of its brightest jewels is missing. I suspect, you have great plans for us?”

“Oh yes, my dear Monsieur Jauffret. The most unforgettable spectacles and everything your heart desires!”

“Ah, you come to it promptly, my dear Monsieur Dartois, for when we met at Madame de Giradin’s, you let me understand that you would be in a position to acquaint me further with those who may provide more eclectic and expensive forms of recreation.”

“Ah!” whispers, Monsieur Dartois. “If money is not an issue…”

Porthos laughs heartily. “It is the least of my concerns. I was blessed to be the only living relative of an affluent distant uncle.”

Monsieur Dartois, smiles. “I bow to such fortune! If you wait here, I may be able to assist you further.”

Porthos stands waiting for sometime. He begins to consider altering his line of inquiry. In the background the music has changed to a waltz. Perhaps this is the cholera waltz Virginie mentioned in the morning…

“Monsieur Jauffret?” asks a voice. It is a small person, the size of a child, dressed as a Harlequin. Still the voice is that of an adult man. 

“Who is inquiring?”

“A friend who is eager to assist with your quest for more refined entertainment.”

“Here?”

“No. Follow me!”

It is not easy to follow his colorful guide. Porthos has to push through the crowd. He fears he has lost his guide often but the Harlequin is always there, urging him along. He finds himself on dark long gallery, behind the main stage of the theater. The noise of the crowd on the other side is audible still, but Porthos is alone.

“You asked to see me?” This is a different voice. Hoarse.

“I asked to see no one, Monsieur. I was told that some well-connected person might be able to further my recreational pursuits. For a price, of course…”

The one speaking moves closer to Porthos along the gallery. Porthos can clearly see the outline of a tall person, wearing some kind of hooded cape. He stands in the dark, and the hood makes it impossible to see any of his features. It is necessary however. Porthos needs to find one simple detail in this vampire’s clothing or features to attach a tracking spell, so he can follow him anywhere, and always know where he is. “What price exactly, Monsieur Jauffret?” asks the vampire.

“I am willing to hear your suggestion and learn more about your offer, Monsieur…” retorts Porthos in the pleasant voice of the cleric moving closer to the man, “Monsieur… I fear I do not know what to call you.” 

“It depends on whether or not we will do business with each other,” retorts the hooded vampire. “Shall we begin at 1,000 franc?”

“For…?”

“Quarter of an ounce”

“Which will last me how long?”

“Two doses, maybe three if you water it, but I would not recommend it. I offer the purest and most exquisite samples Monsieur and it pains me when clients do not appreciate the quality of my stock.”

Porthos walks closer pretending to think it over. “1,000 franc is steep Monsieur, for just two doses.”

“It is what I offer.”

“And how soon can this be delivered?”

“Immediately as long as the payment is at hand. We can deal with further deliveries and payments as needed.”

“Well then,” says Porthos now moving even closer, and extending his hand “you have a deal Monsieur, let us shake hands on it.”

The hooded vampire steps back avoiding any contact. It is of no avail. Porthos thinks: “I have no chance to track him.” 

“The money, Monsieur Jauffret?”

“Ah yes,” exclaims Porthos in the cleric’s voice, putting his hand in his pocket, seemingly searching for money. He has a few single bills in there, and a well-crafted profligacy spell that makes everything appear 100 times more than it is.

“Stop!” cries the hooded vampire, drawing a knife, “take your hand off your pockets now! I need to see your hands! No weapons!”

“Oh no…no.. Monsieur!” cries Porthos feigning fear, “I merely want to get my money…please, Monsieur!” But he sees it now clearly. The man’s left hand, his every finger adorned with a ring: some silver, other gold. He focuses on one ring that stands out. It looks golden and is shaped like a skull with two rubies instead of eyes. Porthos has his man.

He backs off, or rather, Monsieur Jauffret tries to run away, but vampires are much faster than humans. “Are you leaving, Monsieur Jauffret?” the vampire’s voice is taunting as he meets Monsieur Jauffret halfway into his retreat. “So soon?”

The gallery is dark, but now and then, lights from the other side of the theater and the crowded hall glimmer through the thick velvet curtains. It is but a brief passing light but Porthos has no doubt about what he sees. Underneath the hood, half the vampire’s face is burned, including his right eye, which stares at him, dead and expressionless like a mask. 

This is the kind of encounter he had prepared the invisibility spell for.

“Merde!” the vampire swears, as his hapless victim disappears in thin air. “Where did he go? You damned idiots, we have been tricked,” he yells at the two small harlequins who creep out of nowhere to appease him. “Find Dartois and bring him here. And call Labarge immediately.”

“Yes, Monsieur Grimaud,” mutters one of his people.

Porthos observes the commotion carefully noting the names. He has heard of the werewolf, Labarge, before of course. So Labarge and his gang work for this Grimaud.

Monsieur Dartois is pushed in front of Grimaud. “You betrayed me, Dartois,” growls the vampire. “You sent a spy here!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Grimaud” retorts the director calmly. “He sounded eager, stupid, and rich enough. Are these not your requirements? And don’t you use this tone with me, or you may have to find another lair that gives you such access to rich Parisians…”

“I could kill you right here and now, Dartois.”

“You can, but you will not. For I know your business well. It was all part of our original arrangement, remember? If something happens to me, authorities get a full report with the locations of your warehouses and the names of your accomplices. Yes, even those accomplices in higher places who may not be forgiving when they realize you betrayed them.” 

“Your empty threats do not scare me, Dartois. Authorities? Parisian authorities cannot even stop a few drunken fools who claim their wine was poisoned…”

“You misunderstand me, Grimaud, and I do not think you are that dense. I have, as you know, served the Great Inquisitor of your Vampire Grand Court well and for many years. I am sure he would be interested to hear of your latest exploits. How does poisoning one of your own sound?” 

“I had nothing to do with that,” growls the vampire, “I merely provided what was needed. This was all the work of Guizot and that murderous bitch with the Musketeer husband.”

“Tell all that to the Great Inquisitor, then. I am sure he will give you a chance to defend yourself before condemning you to real death,” shrugs Monsieur Dartois. “So if you have no other objections, I will be tending to my guests.”

Porthos has heard enough. He moves along as the shadow of Monsieur Dartois, following him into the hall. It is only then that he notices them. At the other side of the room, standing under a banner that declares, “Cholera is our New Regime!” he sees a man and a woman engaged in what appears to be an intimate conversation. Their costumes are exquisite: the woman is dressed as Queen Guinevere and the man is dressed as Sir Lancelot. They both look very familiar, despite the fact that they wear masks.

But there is more commotion now in the hall as people demand “The Harlequin Act!” Five small harlequins jump onto the stage surrounding the man on stilts dressed as the Cholera. They tumble around taunting him, making it hard for him to keep his balance and pulling some of the most atrocious appendages off his costume. One of the little people climbs up on one of the stilts and starts waving a flag of surrender. The audience is elated, cheering him on. It is then, at the very peak of excitement that the harlequin with the flag takes a fall from where he was perched. At first, it looks like part of the act, bringing about laughter and applause. But then there is a scream. Followed by many… This is no act. Someone yells, “it is the cholera” and pandemonium ensues, as some people rush towards the stage and the rest flock to leave the hall.

Porthos climbs the stage following Monsieur Dartois once more. The theater director is surrounded by the other small tumblers and the man on the stilts. “Dear God,” he exclaims, removing the man’s mask and revealing his blue skin, “Dear God, this is the cholera!” But Porthos knows immediately Monsieur Dartois is lying and lying so that as many people as possible will hear his words. For as Porthos moves closer to the dead man he can easily tell that the victim is no man at all. His ears are pointed and the pupils of his large opened eyes are colored light pink. And most important of all: there is a pair of clear open wounds on his neck, the sign of vampire fangs. Porthos recalls Doctor Dupuytren’s aloof, exacting voice from earlier in the day explaining that a cholera epidemic offers the perfect cover for murder.

Still a shadow, Porthos reaches the exit. That is where he sees them again. Guinevere and Sir Lancelot are standing now under the colonnade at the front of the building. “My dear Knight,” the woman is saying, “you are so gallant offering to accompany me home, after a night such as this.” Porthos is certain he knows the masked woman although her voice does not sound familiar at all. 

“Madame, it is my duty to do so,” says the masked man in that unmistakable accent of Gascony.

This is d’ Artagnan.

Stunned, Porthos observes them as they enter a large fashionable carriage, disappearing into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This entire chapter is based on an event described by multiple sources and witnesses including H. Heine (quoted) at the Théâtre des Variétés in Montmartre. 
> 
> (2) Monsieur Dartois: Armand Dartois was the director of the Théâtre des Variétés between 1830-1836. He is fictionalized here. 
> 
> (3) Delphine de Girardin (24 January 1804 – 29 June 1855), pen name Vicomte Delaunay, was a French author and journaliste. She is fictionalized in this story. She is a love interest of Porthos in Part I. Madame de Girardin was part of Madame Ancelot’s circle together with the playwright, poet, and author Anaïs Ségalas (1811-1893), who is also fictionalized in this story as one of Porthos’ childhood friends.


	28. King's Gambit (Note 1)

_Not long, not long my father said,_  
_Not long, shall you be ours,_  
_The Raven King knows all too well,_  
_Which are the fairest flowers.  
_ _(Ballad of the Raven King, Stanza 1) (2) _

The café(3) is almost empty when Athos enters, just a lawyer and his client poring over documents at a table close to a window and a few other patrons playing checkers and reading newspapers. The place is tame, subdued; nothing like the Old Dovecote. It is one of those proper establishments at the Rue Saint-Honoré(4) where tourists from nearby hotels enjoy a light lunch, and where businessmen and lawyers meet for a drink after their offices close in the evenings. The Musketeer pauldron denotes a way of life entirely out of place in these surroundings, but the wine is excellent. He sits as far from the windows as possible, as if the light disturbs him. He needs to think. Or perhaps, not think, just get drunk. He orders a bottle.

“I hope you do not mind, Monsieur, if I sit with you a while.” The older man who speaks these words is a total stranger. He looks distinguished, important, a statesman of some kind. He has an accent difficult to identify. He is definitely not French.

“I do mind, Monsieur,” retorts Athos in the misanthropic tone that d’ Artagnan often finds off-putting.

“Ah, I understand the feeling, Monsieur de La Fère,” says the man sitting down and setting his glass of wine on the table. “I cannot stand the company of people most hours of the day. But I believe you may want to hear me. You see I am an old friend of your father’s.”

“My father had but a few friends, Monsieur, and none of them foreign. He had some peculiar convictions about the company proper Frenchmen should keep.”

“Your father has always been a discriminating man…”

“I do not understand you, Monsieur, nor do I care to. And I do not believe I know your name although you seem to know mine.”

“John Childremass (5).” He extends his hand over the table expecting Athos to do the same. But he does not.

“The Magician? The advisor to the Raven King? If this is your idea of a joke Monsieur, I suggest you try someone else. I have a short patience and a long sword.”

“Now, now… there is no need for any violence.” 

“How do I even know that you are who you claim to be? The John Childermass I have heard about is rarely seen…”

“I could show you my passport Monsieur, but why would I make up such an outrageous claim? I have just arrived from Rome, from the Palace of Our Most Holy Lord, King and Emperor, to seek you out.”

Athos leans back on his chair, a glimmer of irony in his gray eyes. “To seek me out? I am deeply honored then. Had I known, I would have arranged to meet in surroundings more appropriate to the occasion.”

“He takes great interest in you, Monsieur. And I am here to impart a message from His own lips. For it is written, as you well know, that a champion of truth will rise, a knight pure and honorable. A defender of all that is powerful, to fight for peace….”

“Oh, I see. And that would be me. For someone who has access to the alleged prophecy, you may not be reading it correctly,” Athos chuckles. “Well thank you Monsieur Childermass for this invaluable information. It makes for a fitting end to a very peculiar day…”

“Monsieur, please hear me out. I understand this sounds preposterous. Ridiculous even. I know I would react exactly as you do, if a stranger approached me with such a claim.”

Athos crosses his arms over his chest, “No, really?” 

“I do not expect to convince you of anything. I only hope you will hear what I have to say…”

“Before you say anything, Monsieur, I have some questions.” 

“Naturally.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

It is time for John Childermass to chuckle. “You forget that we know everything we need to know. You come here often since your Garrison moved. It was the Old Dovecot before…”

“What else do you know?” 

“I know you are coming from Monsieur Pelletier’s home, where you and your friend d’ Artagnan met with Monsieur Pelletier’s very efficient lawyer. Could he be involved in the alleged poisonings, you asked.”

“Could he?”

Childermass smiles an inscrutable smile. “Of course he could. But that is not the point of our conversation now, is it? Before that, you met with his daughter. She is unique. A rare and delicate child of nature. She speaks many truths and none of them pure…”

Athos winces at this sinister recital. What does this man know? 

“Before that unfortunate encounter, you agreed to mentor that fine young man from Gascony, Monsieur d’ Artagnan. The best example of the Musketeer spirit and ethos, your Captain called you. Now that is a discerning man!”

“Stop!” says Athos. “You have excellent spies, Monsieur…”

“We merely strive to protect the safety and well being of talented people like you. People who will fight for our cause when called to arms…”

“Ah, so we come to it,” says Athos. “Well, consider this, Monsieur. To me you are the enemy!”

“I know, and that is an unfortunate misunderstanding that I am here to remedy.” As he speaks, John Childermass produces a sealed letter from an inner pocket of his tailored wool coat. The letter bears the seal of Rome that now includes a flying raven, the symbol of its new ruler.

“What does it say?” asks Athos a mocking glimmer in his eyes as he takes the letter.

“That I do not know, Monsieur. It is not written for me. His Letters can only be read by their intended recipients and no other. What I do know, is what I already told you. Our Most Holy Lord, King and Emperor has always taken a special interest in you for you are uniquely gifted.”

Athos looks incredulous. He breaks the seal, and opens the letter. It is thick, luscious parchment, the likes of which he has never touched. The page is blank but as his fingers feel the texture of the paper, letters begin to emerge, written with purple ink in the most beautiful, decorative hand Athos has ever seen. They read thus:

> _Beloved Child,_
> 
> _I write not as your Lord, King, and Emperor, but as your Holy Father, for it is My humble hope that you may learn to love Me as I love you. Yours has been a life of discipline and duty, of integrity and honor. I have attended your upbringing since childhood unbeknownst to you, for your gifts and virtues had to be instilled from an early age, so that when called, you would fulfill your destiny._
> 
> _It is time now to claim that destiny, and the obligations that it entails. It is time to assume that position ascribed to you from birth, as the true, loyal, and pure knight, the one who shall fight in the upcoming great battle, in These and the Other Lands._
> 
> _I know all too well that you do not think of Me as a friend. This was intended, for it has kept you safe all these years from all those who would harm and lead you astray. True love is measured by the sacrifices we make and in assuming the position of adversary I have made the greatest sacrifice of all._
> 
> _Beware of your real enemies. Beware of those who approach you in friendship but envy your powerful gifts. Beware of the impostors who crave to claim your role for themselves. Beware of those whose secrets are intended to trick you and cause you pain for the benefit of their own unholy allies. They are closer to you than you imagine. It pains Me to reveal such truths but it is the duty of any Father to protect A Beloved Child._
> 
> _As a token of My love, I send you My closest advisor and friend, John Childermass, who will deliver this letter and remain in Paris for as long as you require his services. Your skills are incomparable, as is your probity. I fear however that you may be troubled. Yours has been a difficult life. But rejoice now in the knowledge that you have always been protected and loved and that in claiming your destiny you shall gain the joys and rewards you deserve,_
> 
> _Be Blessed and Safe_
> 
> _John Uskglass_
> 
> _“Between Wild Creatures and The World of Men He Stands”_ (6) 

Athos reads this remarkable letter over more than once, each time with more awe, each time with more feeling. As he sets it down on the table the letters slowly vanish and the luscious parchment dissolves to dust. He feels he has to say something but he cannot think.

“His Words are powerful, as is His love for all of us; all His many children,” whispers John Childermass, “I do not expect you to give me any answers now. But I am here for you, as long as you will need me.” He hands Athos a card with his name and the address of one of the most luxurious residences not far from the Louvre. “I made sure my apartments are as close to you as possible. Do not hesitate to come to me or call for me night or day. I hope we meet again very soon. I am sure you have many questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) King’s Gambit is a chess opening that involves offering a pawn to divert the opponent. The downside of this move is that it leaves the King’s position weakened. It is one of the oldest documented openings, examined by the chess player Luis Ramírez de Lucena (c. 1465-c. 1530) who wrote the first still existing book on chess and by the Italian chess player and theoretician Guilio Cesare Polerio (ca. 1550- c. 1610). It was one of the most popular chess openings in the 19thc. 
> 
> (2) See, Susanna Clarke, original novel
> 
> (3) Café: for the period and this part of Paris it makes more sense than a “tavern” or an “inn.” Cafés like the one described here were common in Paris since the previous decade at least. They offered coffee as well as watered wine and light lunch, and then wine in the evening. People gathered there to meet, conduct business, read newspapers, and play checkers. 
> 
> (4) Rue Saint-Honoré: Close to the Jardin des Tuileries and a number of theaters in the 1830s. At the time it was a rather mixed street with cafes, businesses etc. It was also known as a street where prostitution was common at night. This is true for most of the streets in the same area and had to do with the fact that many visitors, tourists, and businessmen frequented these streets. 
> 
> (5) John Childermass is a character created by Susanna Clarke. Here he appears older since this story takes place 16 years later. In the original version Childermass is not as “neatly dressed” but given the fact that he is the closest advisor and minister of the Raven King that aspect of his appearance had to be slightly adjusted for the purposes of this story. 
> 
> (6) “Between Wild Creatures and The World of Men He Stands”: In occupying the throne of Rome, John Uskglass would have to assume some kind of motto and symbol for his seal. The flying raven of course is his symbol (Susanna Clarke). For his motto, I adjusted a quote about him by Catherine of Winchester (mentioned in Susanna Clarke’s book): " [he] stands between England and the Other Lands, between all wild creatures and the world of men"


	29. Sola dosis facit venenum (Note 1)

_The highest ideal of cure is rapid, gentle and permanent restoration of the health, or removal and annihilation of the disease in its whole extent, in the shortest, most reliable, and most harmless way, on easily comprehensible principles.  
_ _(Samuel Hahnemann, 1810, Organon of Medicine, Leipzig.)_

 

Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly sits in the salon, which is outside Rochefort’s bedchamber. She sits at a table covered with books having ransacked Rochefort’s personal library with the help of Bernard, who revealed that in his earlier life he was a librarian and a teacher.

Aramis emerges from the bedroom, her dress, for she is no longer wearing the Musketeer uniform, drenched in blood. She looks as if she is about to faint, her voice but a whisper. “We just managed to calm him down. He was convulsing again. He was bleeding from every pore. It is the second time in just an hour…” she sinks in an armchair suppressing a sob.

“I fear this can last for days. Weeks,” says Mademoiselle d’Hervilly. “Based on what I have read it is called poisoning by tainted blood. It was used in the ancient times as a way to torture and execute vampires who had killed one of their own, but was banned by Queen Lilith and the Grand Court and replaced by true death: death by a silver stake.” 

“So there is no cure. He will suffer like this for weeks and drown in his own blood?”

“I did not say that,” says Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly. “There is no cure in any of the books here, but that does not mean that we cannot find one…”

Aramis looks at her with a flicker of hope.

Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly picks up a book from the pile on the table. Based on this book here, there is a spell called Teilo’s Hand(2). It is an ancient fairy spell that stops all sorts of things including rain, fire, wind, coursing water, and blood. If we could use this spell, we could at least stop the bleeding. Here is the caveat: using the spell requires the invocation of natural elements such as rain, trees, sky, winds, all in the name of John Uskglass, the Raven King, at whose behest all these natural elements intervene so that the desired outcome is achieved.

“That is out of the question!” interjects Aramis.

“I thought so,” continues Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly, picking another book. “Besides, I am a medical student not a student of Magic. So here is another alternative, which I find more promising and straightforward. According to this book, for ages it seems, vampires hunted fairies, elves, pixies, hobgoblins, lutins, that entire race, in countless fruitless efforts to gain the ability to exist in the light of day, decimating entire villages and towns in the process. I was leafing through this book in search of something about tainted blood until I came to a rather tangential paragraph. Listen to this:

 

> _Fairy blood is believed to bestow the Gift of Light_ \- that is what the call it, by the way, Gift of Light- _although there is no evidence to support such claims. Instead there is ample evidence, recorded and anecdotal, that besides its exquisite quality and taste and its ability to quickly induce a state of mild intoxication, fairy blood has no other qualities useful to our people. There is one possible exception but it comes from an anecdote derived from our oral traditions. It is said that at the time of the Second Treaty between Our Glorious Queen, The Kingdoms of Hell, and the Seely Courts, a vampire named Grimaud in the retinue of Our Glorious Sovereign fell under the spell of the Beguiling Seductress_.

If you read the rest, this is what they call Queen Mab. Now, I will not insult your intelligence with this entire paragraph, but according to this, the vampire Grimaud thought that royal blood might be the key to the Gift of Light, so he let himself be lured, but he was, as you can imagine, rejected. At that point he attacked Queen Mab, attempting to drink her blood. Turns out, he died in the attempt.”

Aramis listens carefully. “And what does this prove? Fairies can be deadly.”

“Yes, but this has to do with fairy blood. If this story is true, then this means one of two things: royal fairy blood, unlike regular fairy blood, is poisonous to vampires. Alternatively, or additionally, considering the changeable nature of fairies, royal fairy blood may act as poison under certain circumstances. A violent attack for example.”

“I am not certain I see how this can help us…” mutters Aramis.

“On the contrary! I have been a student of the works of Doctor Samuel Hahnemann, whom I admire deeply, and desire to meet one day. Doctor Hahnemann’s doctrine declares that “like cures like”, in other words, what causes a disease in healthy people will cure similar symptoms in the sick. We may be grasping at straws, but until we discover some real antidote it is a possibility.” Madame d’Hervilly smiles a sad smile. “Of course that means that we somehow must find a royal fairy and persuade her to give us blood in order to cure a poisoned vampire. Quite far fetched…”

Aramis stands and walks to the table, rolling up her sleeve. “You found her.”

Madame d’ Hervilly shows little astonishment. She is businesslike and works fast and without any hesitation. “Well, then it is now matter of quantity and frequency. We do not have the luxury of time, so we have to experiment as we go,” she explains. The first treatment seems to make no difference at all but after the second, the bleeding stops completely for what turns to be three hours.

It is during this time of relative peace that Bernard walks in the bedroom with a letter. “This arrived for you, Mademoiselle,” he says to Aramis. It is a letter from Porthos:

 

> _Dear Friend,_
> 
> _I write to offer you much needed information in your uneven battle. This letter is protected by a damping spell so if it falls in any hands other than yours it will simply become wet and unreadable. Know that I have spoken on your behalf to the Captain. I explained as much as was necessary. He thinks that tending to your dear old governess who has been taken ill is the Christian thing to do and he gives you as much time as you need for that difficult task. He already made sure this story is in the official records of the regiment and that your leave of absence is approved. He asked me to tell you that he will not let you down. That we are all here for you._
> 
> _I discovered that the poison our dear friend received was something called “tainted blood.” It was not sent by Monsieur Pelletier, who seems to be another victim of this plot, as I suspected. It was provided by a gang led by a vampire named Grimaud. They seem to sell vampire blood and are involved in all kinds of crimes. He works with the werewolf Labarge and his gang of malcontents. I have made sure that Grimaud is under surveillance. We will always know where he is and whom he meets. Now Grimaud is a sight to behold, for I have never seen a vampire so disfigured. Half his face, I would say half his body, appears to be burned. Still, he is ruthless and dangerous._
> 
> _The tainted blood was commissioned by Guizot and a woman vampire who works for him. I have been trying to find another explanation for the things I heard this Grimaud say, but I fear I cannot, my friend. I do not know what to make of it. But, Aramis, I clearly overheard him say that the woman is married to a Musketeer!_
> 
> _There is more. For one time at our old barracks, and by accident, in the early morning hours before dawn, I happened upon the woman our dear friend Athos calls wife. She is hard to forget. I saw her again last night. I am certain of it. I saw her with d’ Artagnan!_
> 
> _Whatever plot this is my dearest friend, it seems that we, all four of us, are involved and that we all have to play a role. Yours is very clear at the moment. Have faith. Be strong. Know that we stand with you now and always._
> 
> _All for One, One for All_
> 
> _Porthos_
> 
> _PS: Burn this letter after you read it. We must remain vigilant._

Aramis shows no emotion, as if this extraordinary recital by her loyal friend is just regular correspondence. She walks to the fireplace and throws the letter into the fire.

“I have some additional information about your treatment, Melanie,” says Aramis. “According to the letter I just received, the vampire Grimaud did not die but has been disfigured ever since his encounter with Queen Mab. It is odd, since vampires are able to heal immediately. So if I may propose another scientific hypothesis, this could indicate that the effects of royal fairy blood on vampires are not only harmful but also permanent.”

“Now if only we could determine the right dose and turn this into a cure,” smiles Mademoiselle d’Hervilly.

By the second night of the treatment, all bleeding has stopped but the agonizing pain continues, as does the fever. Rochefort is unconscious and for the brief moments when he opens his eyes it seems that he can neither see nor hear anything and anyone around him. But Aramis is there, seated at the side of the bed, kissing his feverish brow and whispering, “we can do this Jacques, just another small step. We will get to the other side of this together.”

It is long after midnight, on the third night, after a difficult day that has left him exhausted. Madame d’Hervilly is less optimistic than before. Aramis now wonders if this is really the end, her heart completely numb, her tears entirely dried. At least, she thinks, at least he does not suffer as much as before. And he is not alone.

Madame d’ Hervilly has fallen asleep in an armchair at one side of the room. She has been working tirelessly for days with very little food and sleep. Aramis cannot sleep at all. She walks to the window. It is a quiet starry night…

“Renée”…

She gasps and hurries to his side, “Jacques! Jacques!” Madame d’ Hervilly has woken and joins her too. “Jacques, can you hear me? Can you see me?”

“Yes,” his voice is hoarse, a mere whisper. He smiles a feeble smile.

Tears pour down her cheeks. There is no way of stopping them now. She kisses his lips, his face, his hands… “Oh my love, my sweet, precious love, you have come back to me!” He tries to raise his arms to hold her but he is too weak.

“Now, now” says Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly, “that is enough excitement, Monsieur de Rochefort. Speaking as your doctor, it is time for you to rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Sola docis facit venenum: “the dose makes the poison”, paraphrases an adage attributed to Paracelsus. This adage describes one of basic principles of toxicology.
> 
> (1) Vampire universe for this chapter is based almost exclusively on True Blood including the significance of Queen Lilith. 
> 
> (2) Teilo’s Hand: this ancient fairy spell together with examples of its application are described in the original novel by Susanna Clarke.


	30. Venus at Dawn (Note 1)

_My life closed twice before its close—_  
_It yet remains to see_  
_If Immortality unveil_  
_A third event to me_

_(Emily Dickinson, 1890, J1732)_

Porthos sits next to Aramis in the salon. It is early evening, after his regular duties at the Garrison have ended. Madame d’ Hervilly recounts the events of the last five days: their outrageous idea, their optimism when their plan worked, their despair when it appeared to fail. “But it worked in the end,” she concludes with excitement, “that is all that matters at the moment. The high fever, if it was really a fever, has broken. He is not in as much pain as before, and we can all finally touch him without burning his skin. He can see and talk to us, although he is far too weak. Now the question is what do we provide for nourishment that may not be tainted, and how do we wean him off the poison we used as antidote. And I have no answers to either…”

“I may have a solution to the first problem,” says Porthos after some thinking. “I know of a cleansing spell. I can combine it with a simple probing spell. This will ascertain that whatever he drinks is not poisoned. I will speak to Bernard on my way out. As for the second… I would say that there is no one more capable of finding an answer than you, Mademoiselle d’Hervilly. You are a miracle worker!”

Porthos motions to leave, and Aramis stops him. “Thank you… I have no words…”

“I have done nothing…” He smiles playfully, “Royal fairy blood, eh? Of course that fairy was you! I would love to see the look on Athos’ face when I tell him about this. Not that I have seen much of him lately,” he adds.

“Porthos, did you tell him about the woman?”

“Not yet, but he should know the truth about the poisoning. As for the woman I saw with d’ Artagnan. She was masked. I have no proof she was that same woman I met so long ago. It was just a feeling. I may very well be wrong.” 

“Poor Constance,” says Aramis.

“Oh, I would not worry about that. It is probably a passing fancy. A flirtation. He is just a young man. Constance is the one his heart belongs to.”

“That I know,” thinks Aramis but says nothing.

Porthos continues looking concerned. “I am worried about Athos. He is at the Garrison while on duty but besides that I rarely see or talk to him. He trains with d’ Artagnan but the Gascon was telling me this morning that they barely exchange one word between them. He no longer comes along for a drink and card games. He disappears for hours.”

“This is not typical of Athos despite his moodiness,” says Aramis. “If there is a plot afoot, and we know this woman is involved, then we must make sure that both our friends are kept safe.”

Porthos kisses her hand fondly, “I will take care of things at the Garrison, and you promise to take care of things here. Yourself included…your Royal Highness!” They both laugh. Aramis wonders how she still remembers.

It takes some convincing but finally, Aramis sends Madame d’ Hervilly to bed. “I will call you if there is any change, but Melanie you need rest more than I do,” she says pushing the doctor out of the bedchamber. Aramis settles in an armchair next to the bed with that book about the story of the vampire Grimaud and Queen Mab. She reads: 

  

 

 

> _The Second Treaty was signed after much deliberation. It was predicated upon an agreement signed and sealed at Bitter Lands between King Oberon of Arcadia standing for all Seely Courts and the Foundling some call John Uskglass or Raven King. The agreement included an exchange of lands at the western border that granted Our Glorious Queen the rivers and forests inhabited by some of the Unseely courts and several races of goblins, lutins, and elves that would now find themselves her subjects. This was a major loss for King Oberon since such inferior races can only exist as slaves in Our Great Kingdom. The agreement also included the marriage of Queen Mab’s only daughter, an infant born to a human prince, and the only son of the so-called Raven King and a highborn woman who was abducted at a young age, as was the custom of the Raven King and his company of men. Neither child has ever been seen, and it is rumored that both were concealed to avoid the violence following the Second Treaty, especially events such as the Tumbling of Innocents, when thousands of infants, babies, and children up to the age of 13 were massacred by armies of demons seeking to kill the two betrothed royal children and thus annul the treaty demanding better terms…_

…In her mind, Aramis suddenly sees the image of a young woman with long red hair riding off on a black horse. “Who is my husband, Arethusa?” calls a voice. It is the voice of the fairy. “Who is my husband?” the fairy asks again, now standing in a room that looks like a study. “The Prince and heir to the Three Kingdoms, the Raven King’s son,” replies a stern woman’s voice…

Rochefort, stirs in his sleep calling her name. It jolts her out of the reverie and she dismisses it; she must have fallen asleep. She kisses him fondly and he opens his eyes, “I think I was dreaming,” he whispers.

“Good dreams?” she smiles.

“You don’t understand. Vampires do not dream.”

She smiles and kisses him again. “This one does.”

“Renèe,” he insists, “what did you do? How is it possible I am alive? This was tainted blood. No one survives that.”

“Madame d’ Hervilly, your brilliant physician is the one you should thank,” she says. “As for me, remember when you said I should accept the truth about who I am? Turns out you forced me to,” she rolls up her sleeve, her arm marked at several places.

“What did you do to yourself?” He looks concerned and angry at the same time.

“We have come full circle it seems, you and I” she continues playfully, “you may be a little bit intoxicated on royal fairy blood.”

“That is a poison!” he exclaims.

“Yes, we know. We have read your book!” she shows him the volume she has been reading.

“That is a terrible book!”

“It saved your life. It is the book that gave Melanie the idea. Fight poison with another poison. It worked. What were you dreaming of?”

He chuckles. “I cannot tell you that. You should never ask a man who is drunk what his dreams are. You must allow me some dignity.”

She kisses him again and this time he kisses her back, a long deep kiss, “we can do this, one small step at a time,” he whispers.

She looks at him in bewilderment, “you heard that?” she feels tears rising in her eyes.

“I heard everything…”

From the open window, the cool air carries the first chirpings of birds and a delicate scent of roses. She motions to close the curtains. “It is dawn,” she says, “soon it will be morning. We have to keep the windows sealed.”

“No, don’t” he objects, “don’t!”

“But, Jacques, you cannot. My love, you are just a vampire who had a little more fairy blood than he should. Fairy blood has no powers.”

“Please,” he begs, “please let me see it.” He sits up in his bed. “I want to see it. You asked me what I dreamed about. I dreamed of the sunrise.”

She opens the curtains irritated. “I shall stand here then and will close the damn curtains in a second. I am not letting you burn to death…”

It is a beautiful dawn, subdued purple and pale blue hues followed by waves of fushia, rose, pink, red, and orange. Aramis can look at nothing but Jacques, who sits at the bed, mesmerized, almost in a trance. Nothing happens to him. No burns, not the slightest scar. Only his skin glows as if he is covered with gold dust. His hair too. The sun is up now, bright, glorious, and warm. She closes the curtains and locks the shutters. The room is dark once more.

She sits at his bedside, not sure if she should say something. She strokes his hair, still glowing as if sprinkled with gold dust. He grabs her suddenly, unexpectedly, with strength she did not know he could muster. He buries his head in her arms weeping silently. Real tears, not blood. She cradles him in her arms and kisses him. She knows this changes everything. He knows he is no longer the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Vampire universe in this chapter is primarily derived from True Blood although additional elements had to be borrowed from the (otherwise not consistent) universe of "Twilight" novels.


	31. Betrayal

_In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,  
_ _Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:  
_ _Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.  
_ _(_ _Alfred Lord Tennyson, Merlin and Vivien,_ _From Idylls of the King Idylls of the King 1859-1885)_

> _Madame,_
> 
> _It is with deep sadness that I must convey the unfortunate news that a prominent French citizen and member of our exalted race is close to death. Following protocol at the time of his passing, which I fear is imminent, our government will issue a formal statement of sincere condolences to your Great Queen for the loss of one of her children. In the meantime, I believe it may be important that you should impart this news to your sovereign as is your duty. Pray convey to Her Majesty my personal assurance that every necessary measure was taken, and that your services were invaluable in carrying them through._
> 
> _I write also to impart news of a different nature, as a token of our government’s friendship towards your Great Kingdom and France’s intention to remain a neutral haven during the difficult times of war in your lands. It is therefore with great joy that I must announce the emergence of the champion of truth anticipated in These and the Other Lands; a young man of impeccable character and virtue, whose brave intervention saved the life of our French Queen. What a reward for such a knight, if he were to be introduced to society in your company! It is important for France and for universal peace to cultivate the innate gifts of one so young!_
> 
> _Let us all rejoice in the knowledge that despite painful losses and sacrifices, peace is now near,_
> 
> _François Pierre Guillaume Guizot_
> 
> _Minister of Education_

Milady lies against the lush silk pillows of her bed. She chuckles full of contempt. “He can write a good letter at least,” she tells herself. The death of Rochefort bothers her, not only because she respects the person he has become, but primarily because of that letter commissioning his death written and signed by her Queen. An incriminating letter, now in the hands of Guizot and the Raven King. A commissioned murder of one’s own kind is punishable by real death.

As for the other news… Milady turns to the man sleeping next to her, young, with long raven black hair and an aquiline nose, the features of a true Gascon. He reminds her of another Gascon she knew once, long ago. This one has shared her bed these past few nights with equal eagerness. She smiles contemplating the meaning behind Guizot’s words. “I played my card first this time, Guizot,” she muses. “I am ahead of the game, which is no longer in your hands.”

The boy stirs and she leans towards him, her glamoring powers at their peak, “sleep my handsome knight” she whispers in his ear, touching the bite marks on his neck with the edge of her tongue. It is a sensation most pleasurable to humans, and induces deep sleep. “You are mine now,” she whispers to the sleeping youth, “you belong to me.”

A noise outside her bedchamber makes her stand still. She drapes herself in a long white silk robe and exits into the salon slipping the letter in her pocket. A man stands facing the fireplace, only his shape visible in the glow of the fire. He speaks with his back turned. “I have missed you,” he says. Athos.

She is disconcerted, but only for a fleeting moment. Slowly she moves towards him, slipping her naked slender arms around his neck, and caressing his shoulders, his arms, his chest. She motions to kiss him but he pushes her back. “Are you alone?”

“Of course. I have missed you also… I cannot enter your new rooms if you don’t invite me in,” she says with a coy smile that makes her look like a young girl.

He disengages from her arms and sits in an armchair by the fire. She kneels at his feet kissing his hand. “You are troubled, my love?”

“I am,” he says, “these are troubling times. One is no longer certain who is a friend and who is an enemy…” he looks tired, dispirited. 

“I am your loyal friend, you ally, your lover, your wife, you are always safe here.”

He smiles and kisses her softly, “of course, my love, and I trust you above all. I always have. It is the reason I came to see you. I fear I may have misplaced my loyalties you see…”

She feigns concern, “is it Aramis? I warned you about her association with Rochefort. He is dangerous, he can glamor and influence her against the Musketeers. You know who he was before and you know his standing among our people. He is still as dangerous as ever.”

“It is Aramis and her vicious lover,” he retorts, “and Porthos who now serves Magic rather than the Musketeer honor. Even the boy d’ Artagnan. I believe he is convinced he has some special calling although he still cannot sustain a proper attack with his sword. I have come to realize I may have been mistaken in their intentions. I have been shown another way my love, one which will grant us both redemption…”

She admits to herself this turn of events is surprising but not less welcome, “Shown by whom?”

“I was visited by John Childermass,” he says quietly. “He provided ample proof. A letter from the Raven King himself, anointing me to fight in the upcoming battle for truth and peace in These and the Other Lands. It is as you always thought. It is as we have always hoped.”

She is genuinely bemused. Could Guizot be wrong? The answer is obvious. Guizot is an idiot, and the Raven King knows it all too well. The boy lying in her bed asleep is nothing but a convenient decoy. She has been right all along. One more step ahead of Guizot in this game. Both she and the Queen are safer now than just a few hours ago, and one day, she will be granted the Gift of Light. She feels elated, excited, hopeful even. She kisses him passionately. “I never had any doubts, my prince.”

He kisses her back, a deep kiss, almost desperate. He trembles as her fingers softly and deliberately move below his waist as if to remove his belt. He stops her abruptly, stands, and motions to leave.

“Shall you not stay?”

He lingers, seemingly weighing desire against duty, “I must…” his voice sounds uncertain, “I must return. I am on duty tonight.” He looks embarrassed, almost remorseful. She attributes it to the passion she knows she can stir in him; to the bond between them, which despite everything, marks her entire existence. “I wish… I cannot…” he says again, avoiding her eyes.

He leaves quietly from the secret door reserved for him alone.

Milady remains seated on the floor beside his empty armchair by the fire. If she had a beating heart it would be beating rapidly now, longing for his touch to bring her to ecstasy. She remembers the sleeping boy in the bedchamber. His awkwardness, his enthusiasm, his energy. “He will do for tonight,” she tells herself. Removing her robe, she enters the bedroom.

Athos stands alone in the dark street. He welcomes the cool night air. He feels like he is suffocating. He feels tired, old. As if in this past hour he has lived an entire lifetime of guilt and recrimination. He breathes deeply, a sob at the end of each breath.

“Well?” whispers a voice concealed in the darkness. Porthos’ voice.

Athos turns, composed and solemn now, pulling a letter from his pocket. “I found this in her robe. It is incriminating enough.”


	32. Planchet (Note 1)

_Queen Lilith’s armies were known for their training, brutal discipline, and blind loyalty to their sovereign under the watchful eye of the Lord Prince General, the highest military rank in the Kingdom. The Lord Prince General held the highest position in the Queen’s privy chamber and war council. For at least 400 years this position had been held firmly by Prince Dragulya (2), whose ruthless tactics earned him many victories against the armies of Faerie and those of the Kingdoms of Hell. He was seconded in power and cruelty only by his brother, Lord General Radu the Beautiful(2). _

_(Journals of a Revolution in the Other Lands, articles published anonymously in the Jeffersonian Republican (3) , Stroudsburg, PA, 1840-1853)_

D’ Artagnan wakes up with a jolt. How long has he been asleep? Hours? Days? His head throbs with dull, persistent pain. He closes his eyes unable to focus, trying to recall where he had been. There is nothing besides a vague memory of soft silk against his skin and the fragrance of jasmine; the fragrance of a woman that was not Constance. He opens his eyes again. He feels dizzy and nauseated. His surroundings are dark, but there is a feeble light in the distance, perhaps from a candle. The place smells of mold and rotting earth. He realizes he has been lying on the ground protected only by his cloak. He is dressed in his uniform although he is no longer wearing his pauldron. He tries to stand but cannot. He is too weak and something restrains him: a chain. His feet are chained to the wall of this underground cave or cellar, for he has no doubt he is somewhere underground.

Something stirs in the darkness close by. “Is anyone there?” he asks, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice.

“You are finally awake…” mutters a voice from the other side of this dark and hollow space. It is a young voice, perhaps the voice of a boy. There is movement too and metallic noise, another chain. 

“Who are you? Where are we?”

“I think they call this a lair, Monsieur. We call it the cave. It is where the people are thrown before they disappear forever.” 

“What people? Who is “we”?” d’ Artagnan’s head throbs with every effort to speak and his mind is too confused. He cannot think clearly.

“My people, Monsieur. Not humans like your honorable grace. They may spare you… Your grace is too valuable. But the likes of us, we are nothing to them. Nameless slaves,” the boy, if this is a boy, begins to sob, “I never kissed my dear father and mother goodbye…”

“No, no…don’t cry…” d’ Artagnan makes an effort to move towards the boy in the dark but his chain pulls him back, “no tears, now. We will get out of here.” He says affectionately. He reaches for the hilt of his sword, but his sheath is empty. No pistols. No weapons. Of course they have been taken…

His eyes focus better now, as the pain abates and they adjust to the darkness around him. He can see the outline of a person chained across from him. It must be a child, judging from his shape and size. It is only when the person moves and is caught in the glimmer of the candlelight that d’ Artagnan realizes he is looking at a peculiar creature: small, with pointed ears, light blue skin, and a pair of large, intelligent, pink eyes. The little creature, sniffles as he wipes his nose and his large eyes… “and they took my hat, Monsieur. Oh if only I still had my hat… I could fly us both out of here…”

“What are you?”

The creature smiles a wide friendly smile “I am Planchet!” he exclaims with unbridled excitement.

Despite their desperate situation, d’ Artagnan cannot suppress the urge to smile, “I am d’ Artagnan, but, I meant, you are not a human…what are you?”

Planchet sounds perplexed as he answers, ”I am…I am…people…?” But immediately he adds as if he’s had sudden a revelation “Ooooh! I see! Humans confuse us so often. The other day someone called me a goblin!” He sounds offended at that. “I think the right name for me would be a Lutin(4), Monsieur. But to us we are just people.”

“Who is holding us here, Planchet?” asks d’ Artagnan, but at that moment sounds of chains and metal bars over their heads indicate the opening of a trap door. There is light now, and d’ Artagnan can see that they are indeed in a cellar, dug below a floor and chained to the walls among all sorts of strange paraphernalia: flags, banners, masks, old parts of costumes, and large old mirrors, the kinds used to perform magic tricks on stage. A hooded figure walks down the stairs into the cellar followed by a large animal. A dog. No. A wolf.

“Did I hear you speak, vermin?” growls the hooded man kicking Planchet, who winces in pain. The wolf approaches and sniffs at the Lutin showing his teeth.

“Ah, you woke up finally, Monsieur. Such an honor to our humble establishment!” he adds in a mocking tone looking at d’ Artagnan.

D’ Artagnan pulls at his chain with rage “I do not know who you are but you must let me go or…”

“Oh pray continue,” says the man “or…what?” The wolf moves threateningly towards d’ Artagnan, and stands growling a few inches from his face as if ready to attack.

“Labarge! Stand back, you idiot! We want him alive!” cries the hooded man as a second pair of footsteps echo down the stairs and into the cellar. It is a tall imposing man, dressed elegantly in a dark fitted suit, wearing a black felt top hat, gray gloves, and holding an ivory cane in the shape of a snake.

“Excellent, Grimaud, Her Majesty is pleased with you” the man says, addressing his hooded accomplice. He kneels closer to d’ Artagnan, removing his hat. He is handsome, ageless, with a perfectly trimmed black beard and black eyes like coals. D’ Artagnan notices a pin on the lapel of his coat with a large winged snake; a dragon.

“Who are you, Monsieur?” d’Artagnan motions towards the man but stops as the chain pulls him back. “I demand to know who you are, and what you want!”

The man with the dragon pin, smiles a wide smile, and d’ Artagan sees a pair of glimmering white fangs. “You are chained on a wall, my dear boy,” he says, “you are in no position to demand anything.”

The man stands up dusting his clothes and carefully adjusts his hat. “Our orders are to wait before moving him,” he says to the person named Grimaud in a manner full of authority. “There may be some negotiations first. You will be notified when that time comes. Make sure he remains unharmed. Make sure your wolves know that,” he adds looking at the wolf called Labarge with disgust. “And get rid of this vermin as soon as possible,” he adds barely glancing at Planchet who is clinging to the wall whimpering and terrified.

They leave closing the trap door behind them. D’ Artagnan finds himself in darkness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Planchet: the character is completely invented for this story based (with some adjustments) on the French fairy tale Le Prince Lutin by Marie-Catherine Le Jumel de Barneville, Baroness d'Aulnoy (1650/1651–4 January 1705) published in her book Fairy Tales (Les Contes des Fees) in 1697. The name of the character of course is based on Dumas’ Planchet, also a fictional character and d’ Artagnan’s servant throughout the entire Musketeer saga. 
> 
> (2) Prince Dragulya is historically known also as Vlad the Impaler or Dracula. His historical brother was indeed called Radu the Beautiful. 
> 
> (3) The Jeffersonian Republican was an actual US newspaper of the period. The quote is completely fictional. 
> 
> (4 )Lutins are usually depicted today as harmless happy elves (esp. Christmas elves.) However in French folklore Lutins are significantly different. The story here follows French folklore, especially the description of Lutins in Thomas Keightley’s 1892 book “The Fairy Mythology: Illustrative of the romance and superstition of various countries” (London: George Bell &Sons), and the fairy tale “Le Prince Lutin” written in 1697 by Marie-Catherine Le Jumel de Barneville, Baroness d'Aulnoy (1650/1651–4 January 1705) in her book Les Contes des Fees.


	33. Miss Marianne Strange (Note 1)

 

 

 

> _Dear Monsieur_ (2) _,_
> 
> _Having returned from my remarkable journeys in Faerie, visiting the Kingdom of Arcadia and The Islands of the Great Circle, I must first express my deepest gratitude for the invaluable gifts of Magic, which you and your brilliant pupil provided. I could not have completed this journey without them and they proved vital on many an occasion. I intend to write a full record of my adventures and astonishing encounters in the Other Lands soon, but not before my pen pays tribute to the brave exploits and adventures recorded in the archives entrusted in me not long ago by our mutual friend. You should expect those stories celebrating French honor to appear in_ _Le Siècle_ _by March_. _Permit me finally to convey my congratulations and most heartfelt wishes for your upcoming marriage to that lady of unparalleled talent, your dear pupil, whose gifts can only be compared to yours. May you be both joyous and continue to amaze us with your unique achievements._
> 
> _—In Friendship Always—_
> 
> _Alexandre Dumas_
> 
> _(Alexandre Dumas Archive, University of Notre Dame, Hesburgh Libraries, Rare Books and Special Collections, Correspondence: Dear Monsieur Letter—signed—dated 1844)_

 

Porthos arrives at Madame Ancelot’s house early the next morning. He is expected after an urgent invitation. “Virginie, what is the matter?” he exclaims anxiously as he enters the grand foyer. 

She looks radiant, wearing a white morning dress made of fine lace. “I have a pleasant surprise for you, my darling! A visitor! Or rather, two!” she says as she leads him into the salon. It is indeed a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Segundus(3)!

“My dearest Baron,” Mr. Segundus stands from his chair elated. “I fear my return to England was much shorter than I anticipated!” he exclaims shaking Porthos’ hand.

“I am afraid, it was all my doing, Monsieur, for I insisted we traveled to meet you the moment dear Mr. Segundus told us about you,” interjects a young, confident voice. The person speaking is remarkable indeed. She is young, not older than fifteen, a tall girl, with the most striking pair of blue eyes, a freckled face and long curly hair the color of fire. 

“My dear Baron, permit me to introduce you to my goddaughter who would not rest until she had met and spoken to you in person. This is Miss Marianne Strange, the daughter of dear departed Arabella, and Mr. Jonathan Strange.”

The girl walks up to Porthos and grabs his hand shaking it with excitement. “It is a privilege to meet you, Monsieur!” she says. Porthos smiles as he gently disengages from her grip and bows politely. “I am very happy to meet you also, Mademoiselle Strange.”

“Oh, dear,” exclaims the young lady looking embarrassed and ready to giggle, “this is not a ladylike way to greet a gentleman! I forgot! You must think me such a provincial, Monsieur!”

“Not in the least, Mademoiselle!” says Porthos with a smile.

“Oh no, but I am a provincial,” the girl continues, quite unabashed, “I had never seen a city before we arrived in Paris! Can you imagine that? I have never been to London! Oh, but what a marvel Paris is, Monsieur! I could live here forever! And now I have met you also! The French Magician! I shall remember this day for the rest of my life! For can anything so exciting ever happen to someone again?” she exclaims with enthusiasm.

Madame Ancelot looks entertained. “My dear,” she says quietly taking Miss Strange by the hand and leading her back to the sofa, “why don’t we all sit down for some coffee and tea?”

“You must forgive, dear Marianne, Monsieur du Valon,” whispers Mr. Segundus as they follow the ladies, “she is receiving a well structured formal education befitting a young lady, but she has a mind of her own and a rather excited disposition.” 

Miss Strange has clearly heard her godfather’s comment for she immediately interjects “My governess, who is a dear lady but for her taste of rosewater— for personally, I find it unbearable, Madame—attributes my excited disposition to the unusual color of my hair. I disagree. For what does one’s hair has to do with one’s disposition? But once, when I fear my actions displeased her greatly, she indicated that it is Magic and not my hair color that is to blame.” 

“That is all nonsense my dear,” says Madame Ancelot as they both sit.

“Oh no, Madame!” continues the girl. “On the contrary!”

Porthos, stops short while drinking his coffee, “on the contrary, Mademoiselle?” 

“Yes, indeed Baron!” says Mr. Segundus quietly. “This is the reason I decided to return to France with Miss Strange so quickly. This is the reason she wanted to meet you. You see, Monsieur… She is very talented.”

“In Magic?”

“Oh yes!” says Miss Strange, “although of course, we do not talk about it much except with dear Mr. Segundus. I am told it is unseemly. But how can it be?”

Her honest question echoes Porthos’ feelings not many years ago. “It is not, Mademoiselle,” he says seriously. “Believe me, there is nothing unseemly about Magic.”

“My father was a great Magician, Monsieur,” continues Miss Strange with clear sadness in her voice. “I never met him, as I have never met my mother. He acted as a hero to protect and fight for our country during the wars. And he did it all with Magic. If my father were here, I would have an advisor, a mentor…” 

“So you see, dear Baron,” says Mr. Segundus, “the moment I mentioned you to dear Marianne, she insisted we return to meet you…”

“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Segundus,” Porthos hesitates, “I am deeply honored…truly I am… But I cannot be anyone’s mentor in Magic. Why, there are times I wished I had a mentor myself, and Mr. Segundus you have been invaluable to me in that manner.” He notices disappointment and sadness in the girl’s eyes. He suddenly recalls his own frustration, his eagerness to learn, his loneliness... “On second thoughts,” he exclaims, “it seems to me that the best way to teach oneself is to become a teacher!”

Miss Strange looks flabbergasted. She stands up and seizes his hands. “Oh dear Baron! Oh dear Baron! Do you mean it?”

Porthos eases her grip once more as he laughs, “Yes, Mademoiselle! But only for as long as your godfather and your other education permits,” he adds more seriously. “Now keep in mind of course, that my Magic, is not English Magic, although I have nothing but respect for the Great English Magicians and deep admiration for your father’s work. My Magic is not the Raven King’s Magic whom your father admired deeply. I do not agree with the use of fairy servants. I do not consider fairies, idle, unruly, immoral, insane, or in any way inferior. Their Magic is unique and I have deep respect for their power and intelligence. I see them as another partner in the practice of Magic. Still, in teaching you perhaps, we can both learn from each other.”

Mr. Segundus, smiles satisfied, “we thank you wholeheartedly, dear Baron!”

“Monsieur Segundus, consider this,” whispers Porthos, “in making this decision you are placing her in danger. You know my standing with the Raven King…” 

“There is much I did not tell you dear Baron, and I was hoping to share it with you later, in private,” Mr. Segundus retorts quietly. “I fear she is already in danger. That is the reason I thought I should remove her from England and bring her into your protection immediately. Although we, all the friends and family of her father and mother, have tried to keep her safe, our common enemies know about her. John Childermass was waiting for me in London upon my return with a message from the Raven King. It was not a pleasant meeting, and that is all I will say about it. She is Mr. Strange’s daughter, who admired the Magic of the Raven King. Of course they would keep an eye on her. We were naïve to think otherwise.”

“Then say no more about it, Monsieur,” Porthos reassures Mr. Segundus. “Miss Strange will be protected.” And turning to the girl he asks with a pleasant smile, “So my dear Miss Strange, perhaps you can show me some of your work?”

The girl stands up with excitement, as if this is the moment she has been preparing for all her life.

“My father, as you may know,” she says, “was particularly drawn to mirrors and much of his Magic used them to the dismay of Mr. Norrell, who thought of such Magic as less respectable. I seem to have a similar affinity for them. Any reflecting surface really. So if you permit me, I will show you one of my favorite spells. Considering the walls of this salon have so many mirrors, I think it is most fitting! Mr. Segundus tells me that the spell is in fact one of Mr. Norrell’s. It seems that despite his public disapproval of mirrors Mr. Norrell actually used them on occasion, too. But this spell is very important to me for a special reason. It is the first spell my father ever performed when he was still contemplating to become a Magician, and a spell he performed in the presence of my dear mother, with whom he was still just betrothed, and her brother, my uncle Mr. Woodhope. It is called ‘One spell to discover what my enemy is doing presently.’ (4) It is the first spell I tried also, honoring my father’s memory. It showed me images, which I cannot still understand or explain. But perhaps we can try it for you!”

Miss Strange walks up to one of the mirrors of the salon.

“The only drawback to this spell is if no mirrors are currently reflecting the image of this enemy…” she adds and Mr. Segundus interjects a funny anecdote about the time Mr. Norrell attempted to use this spell to spy on Mr. Strange but was prevented since Mr. Strange had turned all the mirrors in the room towards the walls.

Porthos remembers reading about this spell, but in truth has never attempted it, given this very drawback and the possibility that a foe might manipulate the answers using mirrors. But he is no less fascinated to see it. 

Miss Strange raises her hand and with a complicated gesture draws the shape of a circle on the surface of the mirror. “Let’s see,” she muses.

The image is not clear at first. Porthos, Madame Ancelot, and Mr. Segundus all gather around the mirror trying to make sense of what they see for the image is too dark: old flags and banners, parts of torn fabrics that look like old curtains or fancy costumes…

“Do you have enemies in the theatrical world, Paul?” asks Madame Ancelot playfully, but Porthos no longer thinks this is a game.

A large dog walks in front of the mirror… Or maybe not a dog. A wolf.

It is then that Porthos sees him, close to the invisible outline of the circle that Miss Strange has drawn on the mirror: a man, and a man he knows well chained to a wall. D’ Artagnan!

“I must leave immediately!” Porthos exclaims in shock and bewilderment. “Miss Strange, you are indeed a gifted Magician!” and taking aside Madame Ancelot, he whispers, “Virginie, please keep Miss Strange and Mr. Segundus here. Do not let them out of the house; especially Miss Strange. And do not let them anywhere near mirrors. For they could be discovered.”

She presses his hand firmly “have no fear, my darling” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Miss Marianne Strange is a completely new character, and cannot be found in Susanna Clarke’s book. It is unclear why she is a redhead since both her parents were dark haired but red hair is a recessive gene and the workings of Magic are mysterious. 
> 
> (2) Dear Monsieur: the letter is of course fictional. If Monsieur Dumas implies that Porthos eventually married Miss Strange sometime in 1844 that would make him 42 and Miss Strange 27 at the time of their wedding. 
> 
> (3) Monsieur Segundus (John): character created by Susanna Clarke. He appears in Part I. 
> 
> (4) “One Spell to Discover What My Enemy is Doing Presently”: described by Susanna Clarke in the original novel.


	34. Bishop’s Opening (Note 1)

_“King Henry asked the boy_ (2) his name.  
_The boy replied he had none._  
_King Henry asked him why he made war on England._  
_The boy said that he was the only surviving member of an aristocratic Norman family who had been granted lands in the north of England by King Henry’s father, William the Conqueror. […] The boy said that he was already a King in Faerie._  
_He named the fairy King who was his overlord (2).  
_ _No one understood._

 _That day he began his unbroken reign of more than three hundred years._

_Jonathan Strange, Prologue to The History and Practice of English Magic, orig. publ. John Murray, London 1816 now extinct; prologue salvaged by John Segundus, in Letters and Miscellaneous Papers of Jonathan Strange, publ. John Murray, London 1824 (2)_

Not far from the Garrison, at Le Grand Véfour(3), under the arcades of the Palais Royal, Athos winces slightly as he drinks the watered wine served with lunch although it is excellent. It is customary to water the wine at this time of day, but he prefers his wine untouched. 

“Not to your liking?” Childermass chuckles, “I admit, I prefer ale. Once a Yorkshireman always a Yorkshireman. My tastes are not sophisticated, I fear.”

“What is not to my liking, Monsieur is this game you play,” Athos continues a conversation that started a while ago. “For it now appears that your ally Monsieur Guizot was behind both an attack against the Queen of the French at Amiens and behind at least one poisoning of a prominent French citizen, while attempting to incriminate Monsieur Pelletier, who is, as you probably know, politically inclined against him and his government and extremely wealthy.”

“Monsieur Guizot is our ally of course,” admits Childermass impassively, “but of course, my dear Comte, everyone is our ally. We do not have any enemies, remember? We only stand for peace in These and The Other Lands. Monsieur Pelletier and that prominent citizen you mentioned are nothing more than radical insurgents threatening the peace our Holy Lord King and Emperor strives to maintain. ”

Athos chuckles, “Of course, I forget…”

Childermass’ voice is solemn, “this letter you intercepted, you say it was written by Guizot to another vampire? A woman? And that you are connected to her?” He knows the answers to all these questions of course but he feigns ignorance to save time. Besides this may be a significant turning point. He always despised that murderous slut.

“Yes,” Athos replies, “she is my wife.”

Childermass thinks fast. It is not a coincidence that the Prince discovered this letter. It cannot be. Nothing is a coincidence under the watchful eye of the Raven King. Everything happens for a reason that the King only understands. Everyone else must simply fulfill their predestined roles. In Childermass’ mind it is clear that the revelation of the woman’s betrayal, partial though it was, is a sign from his Master to move their plan forward faster. It is time to dispose of that woman’s influence and replace it with what really matters. He would be more than happy to do it now. “What do you know about her, Monsieur? This vampire you call wife?” he asks.

Athos looks at Childermass with bitterness and a glimmer of irony, “I assume this is a rhetorical question. I assume you are about to tell me….”

“Yes, I will. I must. For she is not what she claims to be. A poor widow turned by Queen Lilith during the times of the Great Plague of London, is that not the story she told you? I ask you, Monsieur why would a brilliant politician and strategist like Queen Lilith take any interest in anyone like that? Humans to the Queen are divided in two categories, useful or….” he raises his wine glass with a smile, plays with it in his hand, and then drinks a good mouthful.

“You dear wife, belonged to the former,” he continues without losing sight of Athos’ effort to maintain his composure. “And of course, she was not turned in the plague infested streets of London. She was turned several decades earlier here in Paris, and of her own accord. It was her choice, and it was her training she offered to Queen Lilith in exchange… Training by none other than the Great Richelieu. She was after all his most valuable assassin…”

“You lie, Monsieur,” mutters Athos with little conviction.

“You know well that I do not. You even suspect her lies yourself.” Childermass was looking forward to this part of the revelation, which feels like putting a stake through that vampire that he loathes. “You should consider her real motives for approaching you, my dear Comte, in light of this information. She is connected to you, you see, and in a way that I personally find repugnant. She was married to one of your ancient ancestors you see, back then…”

“Enough, Monsieur!” interjects Athos. “You have slandered everyone and everything that is important to me. Is that your Master’s idea of a loving and holy father?”

“It is,” says Childermass in a quiet voice that sounds almost like the voice of a priest, “because a loving father cannot shy away from the truth especially when his beloved child, and that would be you Monsieur, is destined to become the champion of truth…”

Athos feels a sudden urge to leave, to return to the Garrison, a premonition of impending danger. He stands up, “Our training just ended, Monsieur,” he says.

“But you will not abandon your duty to Our Holy Lord. Should I expect to see you again, soon?”

Athos stands up throwing his napkin on the table. He leaves without giving Childermass an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Bishop’s Opening is a chess opening. It affords the opponent the opportunity for multiple moves and resolves problems inherent in the opening known as “King’s Gambit.” It is one of the earliest openings to be analyzed, by Luis Ramírez de Lucena (c. 1465-c. 1530) and Rodrigo (Ruy) López de Segura (c. 1530 – c. 1580)
> 
> (2) One of the few excerpts from Jonathan Strange’s extinct book salvaged by Mr. Segundus. The Prologue tells the story of John Uskglass, the Raven King (“the boy”). This first part of the story takes place in ca. 1100 AD. John Uskglass was a human child abducted by fairies as a slave who became a King in Faerie. His Faerie overlord mentioned in the excerpt is King Oberon (see Susanna Clarke’s original novel.)
> 
> (3) Le Grand Véfour was the first grand restaurant that opened in Paris in the arcades of the Palais Royal in 1784. It was bought in 1820 by Jean Véfour (thus its name.) Its list of customers over at least two centuries includes the most significant personalities of French culture and politics and everyone who was “anyone” in Paris.


	35. Rage

_“Fairies are the source of everything we magicians desire. Magic is their native condition.”_ _(Quote attributed to Jonathan Strange by John Waterbury, Lord Portishead in his Journals of Magic, published posthumously, John Murray, London 1822.)_

_“Wicked, wicked! And then again, perhaps not so wicked after all—for what does he [the fairy] do but follow his nature? How can he help himself?” (Quote attributed to Jonathan Strange by Dr. Lancelot Greysteel, in John Segundus, The Life of Jonathan Strange, publ. John Murray, London, 1820.)_

 

Porthos hurries back to the Garrison. The Captain is pacing up and down the gallery overlooking the court. “Where have you been,” he inquires the moment Porthos dismounts. “Where are Athos and d’ Artangan? What is happening to you all?”

“Athos is missing too?”

“What do you mean by “missing too”? In my office. Right now!” orders the Captain, his patience clearly exhausted.

Porthos recounts all he knows, about the plot to poison the Comte de Rochefort and incriminate Monsieur Pelletier, who seemed to have been the target of similar plots even before this latest one; about Aramis and Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly’s cure; about the gang led by the vampire Grimaud hiding in the Théâtre des Variétés; about the goblins killed under the semblance of the cholera, for reasons Porthos cannot fathom; about the woman vampire working with Guizot, the one Porthos saw with d’ Artagnan and about the letter Athos extracted from her confirming this entire conspiracy. And then there is Mademoiselle Strange. It is not that Porthos does not trust his Captain. It is that they may be spied upon; they probably already are. So he decides to keep her presence a secret but reveal what he witnessed through her Magic.

“I saw d’ Artagnan, Captain,” he concludes. “He has been abducted. Of that I am certain. I saw him chained. It was a simple spell, for something else, but I saw him. I saw a wolf too, and I suspect his jailer is Labarge, and therefore Grimaud. I know where they are keeping him. It is still morning. They will not be able to move him until after sundown. We can save him if we act now!”

“And where is Athos?”

“That I do not know, Captain. I left him at the Garrison after midnight, when we returned. But we can find him. All I need is a basin with some clean water(1).”

The Captain grabs an empty porcelain basin used for washing and fills it with water. “Will this do?”

“It works better if the basin is silver, Captain, but this will do,” says Porthos. He focuses, and whispers a word. All lights in the room grow dimmer; even the bright sunlight from the windows, as if it is now late evening. At the same moment the water in the basin changes from clear to dark. Porthos draws his finger over the water twice and two bright lines emerge splitting the surface in four quarters. One appears to be full of stars, the second resembles the depths of the ocean, the third looks like dense foliage, and the fourth keeps changing forms and shapes.

“Sky, Sea, and Land” explains Porthos tapping on “Land” with his fingers. As he does, all other three quarters disappear. Porthos divides “Land” into four new quarters, continuing his search.

“And what was that fourth quarter which kept changing shapes?” inquires the Captain mesmerized. 

“The Other Lands, but I hope we do not have to look there, Captain.”

Porthos works fast. The patterns on the water become denser and more precise. “How long will this take, Porthos?” The Captain is getting impatient. And then they both see him: Athos sitting in what looks like a private room at a restaurant. He appears to be in a tense conversation with someone else, an older man Porthos has never seen before.

“John Childermass!” exclaims de Treville. “What is he doing in Paris?”

Porthos does not need to investigate any further. Both he and Captain de Treville know exactly where Athos is, merely a few streets away, at Le Grand Véfour, the most fashionable restaurant in Paris.

Porthos taps his finger on the surface once and the image vanishes, as the water becomes clear again and the light in the room is restored.

Captain de Treville sinks in his chair. “John Childermass? Here? With Athos?” 

“Captain,” says Porthos quietly, “I told you all I know. I think it is time you tell me what it is that you know. Why is Athos training d’ Artagnan, for instance? Forgive me but there is no such thing as a mentor for Musketeer training. We all train together and in the same way…”

The Captain is sober, weighing his words with caution, “Porthos, there are certain things I cannot tell you. What I can tell you will confirm what you already have intuited and what you already know. D’ Artagnan has unique abilities…”

“And Athos was the best man to cultivate them?” there is anger in Porthos’ voice and a slight recrimination. “Do not misunderstand me, Captain. He is a great soldier. He is your favorite. But he is as flawed as any of us… The only difference is that he is the only one not associated with Magic.”

The Captain looks subdued, “Yes. Or, so I thought. I was wrong. I was wrong about everything…” he adds. “I apologize.”

Porthos smiles, “Apology accepted, Captain. Now the question is, do we want to alert Athos?”

“What do you think, Porthos,” the Captain’s question is genuine and Porthos is astonished to be asked. “Do you trust him?” 

“I do, Captain. Wholeheartedly, I do. For whatever this meeting is about, the Athos I know would give his life for his friends.”

“How do we alert him then?”

“I can conjure up a summoning spell. It is untraceable. And it takes just a minute. And Captain, I will conjure up another spell to let Aramis know. She should know…”

The Captain grabs his hat and pistols from his desk. “I will gather the men then.” 

Athos walks through the Garrison gate as the small troop gathered by Captain de Treville is preparing to leave. “What is happening, Captain?” he asks.

“D’ Artagnan is missing, and we are on our way to rescue him.”

“We know where he is?”

“Yes, we do,” replies Porthos. “He is at the Théâtre des Variétés, kept there by our friend Grimaud and his gang of wolves. I will explain on the way. We have little time, we need to be there before sunset.”

It is a busy afternoon at Montmartre. Street vendors selling newspapers, and flowers occupy the sidewalk in front of the theater, which otherwise appears to be closed. Someone is standing at the front under the colonnade. Another Musketeer. Porthos feels elated to see her again in uniform and smiling. Aramis!

“I came as soon as I got your…what should I call that? Message?” she tells Porthos who dismounts first and greets her warmly. “Mademoiselle d’ Hervilly stayed with Jacques, although he insists he no longer needs to be taken care of. He may be right.”

Athos joins them now, as does the Captain. “It is good to see you back, Aramis” says the latter, “I suppose Porthos explained.”

“Yes, Captain, I understand d’ Artagnan is in trouble. And I look forward to meeting this Grimaud.”

“I hope we will not have to…” says Porthos, but Aramis expects otherwise.

They enter the building with caution. Where some nights ago there were lights and thousands of people now there is only darkness, and an empty space, echoing their footsteps.

“There is no one here,” whispers Athos.

“I think we may have to go behind the stage. There is a hidden gallery.”

“Porthos, I do not like this at all,” Athos insists. “It feels like a trap…” He barely finishes his sentence before growling sounds echo in the large empty hall. Wolves. Not one, but many, hiding all around them. Aramis fires her pistol into the darkness. There is a sound of an animal whimpering.

“Got one! We are surrounded, Captain,” she exclaims. “They are all around us. They will attack.”

Musketeers draw their swords and pistols, ready for a battle that is skewed against them, for they fight stealthy vicious enemies in complete darkness, with no one but Aramis seemingly able to detect them.

Porthos disengages himself first from his opponent, who retreats wounded from a thrust by Porthos’ sword. “This way!” he calls to the other two Musketeers who follow him behind the stage.

It is as Porthos described: a long narrow gallery, as dark as the rest of the theater. “He was in an underground chamber,” says Porthos. “So there must be a trap door somewhere.” They walk carefully, their pistols in their hands. It is Athos who notices it: the loose floorboard and the hollow noise under his feet.

“Here!” he exclaims.

They discover a trap door leading to a cellar, a kind of storeroom for rotting stage pieces and costumes. It reeks of mold. It is empty. “This is the place,” cries Porthos. “I am certain of it!”

“No one is here Porthos,” says Athos quietly, “but someone has been here…” He shows them chains on the walls and a Musketeer cloak on the floor, d’ Artagnan’s cloak.

Aramis tries to focus her racing mind. “It cannot be, it cannot be,” she repeats to herself. “It cannot be that he is harmed too.” The feeling of Rochefort curled in her arms, bleeding and writhing in agony flashes through her mind. “If I focus,” she thinks, “I maybe able to hear d’ Artagnan… hear his thoughts…locate him.” But for the first time in her life she finds herself unable to do what has always been so easy. Something else is in the way: anger and an uncontrollable urge to strike out. She realizes suddenly that she has felt like this once before; the night she met Rochefort, when that chain flew from her hands…

“Such unfortunate timing, indeed” taunts a hoarse voice. It is a hooded figure that neither Athos nor Aramis have ever met before but they both know well. The vampire named Grimaud. He is followed by a large black wolf, Labarge.

“Your friend has not been here for some time,” adds Grimaud.

“You lie,” exclaims Porthos, “he was here this morning!”

“Ah…the Magician Musketeer. What is your name Monsieur? Jaufrette, perhaps? Clever. Very Clever. But you can only fool me once you see…” he turns around his hands pointing around at the old cracked mirrors stacked against the walls of the cellar. “Mirrors used for cheap magic tricks, can be useful. They can still show someone whatever it is you want them to see…” he gloats.

Aramis steps up blocking Grimaud’s way to the other two Musketeers. “Where is he?” she demands, her voice slightly trembling. 

“Ah! Mademoiselle Musketeer! I hope there will be no tears and please do not hurt me…for I cannot possibly die…” His empty taunt hangs midway in the air unfinished as the cellar fills with bright blinding light. The wolf howls in pain and cowers whimpering at a corner unable to move. Porthos and Athos fall back towards the walls covering their eyes. The explosion lasts no more than a minute. As the light subsides without fading completely, both Musketeers see the vampire suspended in the air, his hood askew and no longer hiding his disfigured face, writhing in pain. Aramis still stands where she stood before with her right arm raised slightly. There is something different about her countenance. Athos recognizes her immediately: the fairy he trapped in his candle.

“Where is he?” she repeats her voice full of raw rage. The vampire screams, seemingly unable to form any words.

“Aramis stop!” cries Porthos, “if you kill him we will never find out…” His intervention seems to make no difference. “Athos,” he exclaims, “you must do it! You must stop her! She will listen to you! You are the one who captured her!”

Athos walks towards her with caution. He knows what to say and how to say it. He is not certain how he knows, but he does. “Renée,” his voice sounds almost affectionate, “Renée, you must let him go…”

Aramis turns towards Athos annoyed, as if disturbed by his meddling, “Stand back, Athos!”

“Renée, if you kill him, we may never find out where our friend is.” Athos speaks in a calm, quiet voice.

She eases her grip on the vampire. “Where is he? Speak vermin or you burn at the blink of an eye,” she says. 

Grimaud speaks fast, terrified. “I do not know. I swear I don’t. They moved him last night. There was going to be a negotiation…”

“Who moved him?” Porthos interjects.

“Lord General Radu and his men. I beg you! That is all I know. I was only paid to have the boy taken from a house…”

“Whose house?” it is now Athos’ turn to interrogate the vampire although he is certain he knows the answer.

“Another vampire…a woman…the boy was glamored…”

“Her name!”

“I only know her as Milady…” he winces in pain, “she is powerful…Even the Lord General fears her…” 

“And Guizot?” asks Porthos, “did he pay you?”

“Guizot is an upstart,” mutters Grimaud, “he will do anything for his own advancement.”

Aramis releases her deadly grip and the vampire falls onto the ground moaning in pain. “Remember this! Remember me!” she tells him. They close the trap door as they leave, locking him inside the cellar with his wolf Labarge.

Porthos feels crushed. As if his own powers betrayed him. “I was too late,” he whispers as he stops to catch his breath. “Too late and too gullible…”

“We have no time for this, Porthos. Not now. We have to find the Captain. Make sure the others are safe,” Athos urges him calmly.

Captain de Treville waits for them anxiously at the other side of the stage.

“We lost him Captain… We lost him…” It is Athos now who sounds overcome by emotion but trying hard to sound as if he is not.

Aramis stands back, mute, numb, as if in a trance.

“We must regroup then, back at the Garrison, immediately.” The Captain is completely bewildered as they all hurry to the exit. “There was a light out of nowhere…” he tries to explain, “all the wolves disappeared… and none of us is harmed… I do not understand how this happened. What on earth was that?”

“Fairy Magic,” says Porthos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The spell using water in a silver plate to find someone in These and the Other Lands is described by Susanna Clarke in the original novel.


	36. Venus at Midnight

_She dealt her pretty words like Blades—_

_(Emily Dickinson, J479, 1862)_

Captain de Treville stares at the blank page on his desk. This is his third attempt at a letter to the Abbé de La Mennais. What can he possibly say? What parts of the story should he reveal in correspondence, which may very well be intercepted? What parts would a Jesuit find sinful and abhorrent? He picks up his quilt and writes,

 

> _“Old friend, I fear he is abducted. Perhaps lost forever—Armand”_

He pushes the page away as if writing hurts his eyes. He stands up and pours himself some wine. He has lost men before, but never one so gifted. Never in this manner. Where did they all go wrong? And what now? A rescue mission to The Other Lands? It is not only impossible to launch such a request to the King, it is also impossible to consider it. Few humans have traveled into those kingdoms. Besides Musketeers entering the Other Lands could be perceived as an act of war. And yet, should he, should they, give up, abandoning a Musketeer to his fate?

Porthos wonders the same out loud the moment they all return to the Garrison. He invites them all into his quarters. He is desponded, his voice unsteady. “I am responsible for this!” he exclaims.

“Not more than I am,” Athos chimes in, “for I was his mentor. I was supposed to protect him.” The old familiar feeling of guilt returns, the same bitter taste in his mouth, the same emptiness in his soul. Only now it is worse. This time it bears the particular sting of betrayal. He recalls the slandering remarks by John Childermass and the devious words in the letter by the Raven King.

 

> _Beware of your real enemies. Beware of those who approach you in friendship but envy your powerful gifts. Beware of the impostors who crave to claim your role for themselves. Beware of those whose secrets are intended to trick you and cause you pain for the benefit of their own unholy allies. They are closer to you than you imagine…_

He considers his own arrogance. “An example of the Musketeer spirit and ethos” the Captain had called him once. He has proven that he has neither. “We all failed him,” he says. “We failed ourselves.”

Aramis says nothing at all. She has not uttered a word since she almost killed the vampire in that cellar. She chooses a chair at the darkest part of the room. She would have preferred to be alone. A light knock on the door stirs them from their dejection. Porthos opens carefully, “Captain!” he exclaims astonished, “please come it.”

The Captain walks in, uneasy to find himself in his men’s quarters. “I need to speak to you all, in private. I cannot issue an official order for a rescue mission. I cannot send men to the Other Lands. You all know this. It will be taken as an act of war…”

“I wonder if that is the ultimate purpose of this abduction,” Porthos says, “to force one of the human kingdoms to make a move. To have us enter their war…” 

“We are already part of that war Porthos,” says Aramis, “or haven’t you all noticed?” She sounds tired, sad, and irritated.

“Still, the Captain is correct,” Athos interjects. “He cannot launch an official Musketeer rescue mission to the Other Lands…”

“But a private one?” Porthos looks at the Captain with a glimmer of hope.

“If we knew how to get in and out, and where to go…” the Captain replies.

Aramis slowly feels her mind filling with words again, the buzzing of people’s thoughts, half ended sentences and phrases… Athos’s voice prevails as usual, repeating the name Childermass, and another name, which is strangely silent to her. She takes a deep breath. Perhaps if she focuses, she may hear d’ Artagnan as she had expected before. Can she hear her friend in the Other Lands she wonders? She closes her eyes while the rest of them pace about the room planning their hopeless secret rescue. “Porthos perhaps we can use that spell to find him in the Other Lands...” the Captain is saying.

“He is not there!” she exclaims. “He is not in the Other Lands!”….

 

 

….The hour is now almost midnight. Athos sits on his bed, in his own quarters, unable to sleep. So much has happened. The night is silent, moonless. She is outside his window waiting to be invited in. He can hear her voice whispering his name.

“Come in,” he says.

The smell of jasmine fills the room as she enters. He longs to embrace her. He longs to return to those nights not so long ago when he thought that loving her had been his only sin and redemption was not unattainable.

“You left so abruptly last night, my love,” she says. “I wish you had stayed.”

“Would you have made different choices then?” he speaks quietly, calmly; it surprises him.

“Probably not,” she sounds indifferent, cold.

“You admit it then?”

“Why would I not? Besides, I know that you have read Guizot’s letter. I am neither a fool nor a liar.”

“Where is he? Where is d’ Artagnan?”

“Wherever the Queen wants him to be.”

“What will happen to him?”

“He may survive for a while. They will use him to bargain.”

“For what?” 

“A letter. A letter in the hands of the Raven King. A letter my Queen was forced to write.”

“And if the bargaining succeeds?”

“We get the letter and the boy is thrown to the troops.”

“If it does not?”

“He is thrown to the troops either way”

Athos should have found her directness repulsive, but he does not. He finds it reassuring. He is content she is truthful about what she knows, which is not much. Still, the terrible fate awaiting his young friend in the hands of her people sends shivers up his spine and he is not easily frightened. He decides to avail himself of this rare moment of truthfulness on her part. 

“Why did you do it?” he asks.

“For you; for us. Don’t you see, my love?” she approaches him intending to kiss him but he stops her. She looks bemused, shocked even, that he does not comply. “You said yourself that John Childermass and the Raven King himself spoke of the boy as an impostor. Now he is no longer a threat. Now we are safe,” she continues.

“You manipulate, and lie,” he retorts, although he knows that what she says holds a kernel of truth. For a moment he let his guard down; for a moment he was seduced. It is meaningless now; but the guilt stings still.

He sits on the bed again and she sits beside him, placing her hand on his. He does not recoil although he knows he should.

“So you are her,” he says quietly, “you are Anne de Breuil.” 

She looks straight into his eyes, “Yes. And before you ask, I loved him, more than any other man. Or, so I thought then. It was a peculiar kind of love, powerful and malignant. We kept returning for more. I am not sure which one of us broke that cycle first. I found another calling. My Queen showed me another kind of love that I never knew existed, unconditional, pure, and joyful. As for him, I remember him sometimes now, but not often. It was lifetimes ago and I was a different person then.”

“Less murderous?” he scoffs.

She laughs, to his surprise, “more probably. I had so much anger and so many desires back then.”

“And now?”

“I see no reason to feel any anger. I am content. And desires I have only two. To serve my Queen and to love you, if you agree.” She motions to kiss his brow and he permits it tentatively.

“And yet you lied to me,” he says. “About who you are, what you did…” 

“Would you have agreed to be with me had I been truthful from the moment we met? Does it make any difference who I was before? That woman died centuries ago. Only her form remains.” Her fingers linger on his chest unfastening his shirt. He grabs her hands violently as if to stop her but he does not. He lays her on the bed, and kisses her passionately.

“My Prince,” she whispers in his ear, and her voice makes him tremble, “my Prince, now you belong to me.”


	37. Message in a Bottle

_Two magicians shall appear in England._

_The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me;_  
_The first shall be governed by thieves and murderers; the second shall conspire at his_  
_own destruction;_  
_The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;_  
_The second shall see his dearest possession in his enemy’s hand._  
_The first shall pass his life alone; he shall be his own gaoler;_

_The second shall tread lonely roads, the storm above his head, seeking a dark tower upon a high hillside._

_(Prophecy of The Raven King, Lines 23-29) (1) _

 

Rochefort walks into the dark salon holding a note in his hands. It is past midnight. Someone sits on the sofa by the empty fireplace. “Renée? What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

“I wanted to think,” she says her eyes fixed on the floor, her expression impossible to decipher. He motions to leave but she stops him. “No, please stay…” He sits in an armchair across from her, putting the note in his pocket.

“I am a monster, Jacques.” Her voice is quiet, expressionless.

“What did you do?” he retorts echoing her tone of voice.

She recounts the entire story. D’ Artagnan being abducted, the failed attempt to rescue him, and her encounter with Grimaud.

“So you attacked Grimaud—yes, I know about that odious creature—and you almost killed him. How is this different from anything you have ever done as a Musketeer?”

“You don’t understand Jacques, I could kill him with a snap of my fingers, without even trying. I felt nothing at all. Or rather… I felt entertained. For a moment I even considered ways to prolong his suffering just a little before killing him. I was amused while making someone suffer! Yes, even that despicable creature that tried to kill you!”

“But you didn’t in the end…”

“Only because Athos stopped me. I am not sure how he did it,” her voice is angry now. “That fairy, for she and I are the same, she, we… I… I have no boundaries, no morals, no consideration for anyone and anything….”

“There was a young girl once(2),” Rochefort interrupts her. “She came from a loving and well-respected noble family. She was, pious, and soft spoken; an innocent, tender, pliable girl. Her father hoped she would make a good marriage and why wouldn’t she? She had every opportunity and her future seemed filled with the promise of happiness. He used all the family’s connections to get her into court. She did not have the disposition of a lady in waiting. But she had helped raise her many brothers and sisters and she was sweet and nurturing. The Queen was a perceptive woman. She persuaded the King to give the girl the position of governess to the newborn Dauphin…”

“This is someone you knew?”

“This is someone I killed. She was a tender girl you see, frail, trusting, and guileless. I twisted her trust and made her complicit in crimes she could never have imagined. She drunk the poison I had prepared for someone else. So, poison has been my weapon of choice as well. ‘ _My beloved father and sweet mother, I failed you_ ,’ she wrote in her parting letter. I destroyed that letter. I felt nothing. Perhaps some relief. She had become something of a burden and I was a powerful man with a plan,” he scoffs.

“You did not turn her?”

“No. That is the entire point of my story,” he says quietly. “I was just a stupid hapless human. I thought that I was powerful and invincible; that I was answerable to no one. There were moments I thought I was—don’t laugh—there were moments I thought I was immortal, a god even. Then I met my Maker and became a monster, which feeds on human blood and walks in the night. And I realized what power really entails…”

“Choice…” she chimes in quietly. 

“Yes. That has been my experience at least. We are all monsters, my love, whether we are monsters from These or from the Other Lands. But evil is neither inevitable nor destined. It is a choice. You have a choice…”

“I am married,” she says. “That seems destined…” 

He is genuinely surprised. “Married? To whom?”

“To the son of the Raven King, didn’t you know? It is in that book of yours, the one you hate…”

“You are _that_ royal fairy?” he gasps. “Queen Mab is your mother? I should have guessed…”

“You seriously did not know?” her voice sounds slightly amused.

“No… I hope you are not offended by what I am about to say, but there are so many of you royal fairies... and we…vampires I mean… to us you all are the same. Except, Queen Mab, your mother. She is a force of nature to be reckoned with…”

“You know my mother?”

“Yes. I know her well. Your stepfather too.” He sounds unwilling to say more and she does not inquire further about it.

“Do you know who he is? My husband?” she asks instead.

“No. I have always assumed that poor child did not survive. Those were violent times. How would a human baby survive demons and the troops of the Lord Prince General or his brother? For that child is a human. Both his parents are human…despite what his father has become…”

“You don’t mind that I am married, then?” 

He laughs lightheartedly. “No. Unless you do…”

“I am a fairy. We do not take these things seriously. My mother never has…” Her voice is solemn as if she is mustering her courage to say more.

“Renée, is there more to this story that you are not telling me?” 

“I am not sure where to begin, Jacques. I am not sure how it all fits together either. You, me, my three friends, the Captain, Grimaud, Guizot, the vampire woman who works for him…” 

“Start with the vampire woman…” he suggests. 

“You know her, then? Of course you do, she is a vampire…”

“Well not all vampires know each other. But I know who she is and have known her long before she was turned. Why… she actually worked for me once…” he says quietly.

“So you know who she is!” Aramis exclaims. “Jacques, she is Athos’ wife…”

Rochefort springs from his chair, vexed. “If I were any other person, I would start blabbering about fate right about now,” he says. 

“Who is she, Jacques? What was she to you?”

“When I met her she was called Milady de Winter(3). She was mistress to the King. That would be Louis XIII. I was suspicious of her from the first moment I saw her: too intelligent to be a mistress, and too street smart to be aristocracy. Then I noticed her name listed in Richelieu’s payment records. Turns out, she was one of his agents, a paid assassin. I persuaded her to work for me, which was not difficult considering all her secrets. After all, the King would not have continued to indulge her with his attentions had he found out. I was the King’s most trusted advisor…” 

“What did she do?”

“She killed someone for me, in broad daylight, in a busy market. The man, a Spaniard, was escorted by a full Musketeer retinue, your ancestor Aramis among them I believe. She was superb. Still is. She is one of the most dangerous and powerful vampires I know, Renée. Comparable only to the Lord Prince General. Poor Radu, the General’s brother is in awe of her. He has been trying to become her lover you see with little success. But she is also the most loyal vampire I know. Blind loyalty to her Queen…”

“You admire her?”

“I admire the strength of her convictions; but not those convictions nor her actions. I underestimated her once, when we were both human. She was my downfall. I would be foolish to underestimate her again. She is a remarkable adversary; far more powerful than me…

“Is she dangerous, Jacques? Can she hurt Athos? She almost killed you. She had d’ Artagnan abducted…”

“I am no oracle. But it seems to me that your friend Athos is safer than any of you. Any of us… If she wanted to hurt him he would have been dead by now, or turned, or fodder for Radu’s troops. I would be far more concerned about the fate of your friend d’ Artagnan. His abduction was clearly a move by the Queen independent of Guizot or the Raven King, and it may explain this,” he says handing her the note from his pocket. 

She reads in complete astonishment:

> _Dear Comte de Rochefort,_
> 
> _It is with the utmost joy that I am informed of your miraculous recovery. France and our race would have lost a most prominent citizen and an invaluable member. I hope to have the honor of visiting you at your earliest convenience bearing my best wishes._
> 
> _—In Friendship and Fellowship—_
> 
> _François Pierre Guillaume Guizot_
> 
> _Minister of Education_

“I am thinking of inviting him for breakfast…” chuckles Rochefort but is unable to finish his sentence. Aramis springs from the sofa and seals his mouth with a kiss. 

“What..?” he protests, completely befuddled.

She carefully places her hand over his mouth and whispers in his ear “the letter proves we are being watched. Athos said so too. Childermass made sure we know that we are. He is here in Paris doing the Raven King’s bidding, which somehow involves setting Athos against d’ Artagan. Listen: d’ Artagnan is also here, in Paris. He escaped. Something to do with someone called Planchet. He is hiding in Bonacieux’s empty house. Porthos is on it.”

Rochefort kisses her too, slowly moving his way from her mouth to her neck and behind her ear, “how did you find him? Are you sure it is not a trap?” he whispers.

“I heard him…I had to reveal everything; that I can hear people’s thoughts. Athos stormed out. He called me a hypocrite and a liar…”

He pushes her back gently. She looks devastated. He softly strokes her pale cheeks. “So it was not such a good day…” he says, embracing her and kissing her again.

“There is more, Jacques,” she sighs softly as she whispers, “I remembered the message…”

“What message?”

“Stephen Black’s(4) message about where Mr. Strange and Mr. Norrell are being kept. It is agreed that they must be rescued. We have to put an end to all this.”

He remains silent for a while, but she can see a playful glimmer growing in his light blue eyes. She knows exactly what he is contemplating; somehow she is thinking the same. She stands up holding out her hand to him. She speaks out, defiantly. “If they are spying on us my love, perhaps we should give them something interesting to look at?”

He laughs heartily as he stands, lifts her in his arms and carries her into the bedroom closing the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) See, Susanna Clarke, original novel. 
> 
> (2) There was a young girl once: this Rochefort plotline is not found in Dumas but in the BBC Series The Musketeers (season 2). The “girl” was called Marguerite and was also seduced by Aramis in his effort to get access to the dauphin (his son, in that series.) Rochefort’s recounting of the story omits Marguerite’s involvement with Aramis. 
> 
> (3) When I met her she was called Milady de Winter: this description is also not consistent with the story of Milady in Dumas but derives from the BBC series The Musketeers, including the murder of “the Spaniard” (aka Spanish ambassador.) (season 2)
> 
> (4) Stephen Black: main character in Susanna Clarke’s original novel; appears in Part I.


	38. Afterglow (Note 1)

_The King and Queen of the French were reluctant to leave their Palais-Orléans (2) for the Tuileries Palace. Just as everyone else, they knew the stories about the ghosts of their headless ancestors wandering in the corridors. But a French King outside the Tuileries was no French King but some trembling impostor. They appealed to the church to bless the haunted halls and contemplated secretly consulting with the only French practicing Magician known, but were advised against it by Minster Guizot. He considered such a move dangerous, for this new French Magic was nothing but an open provocation against the Holy Lord King and Emperor in Rome, whose Magic is the only Magic in These and The Other Lands. _

_(John Childermass, Memoirs of a Yorkshire Magician, John Murray, London 1849)_

 

John Childermass opens the letter with reverence. Its purple calligraphy astounds him with its beauty and elegance; its message spoken in the voice of the Raven King himself as the letters unfold, resonates and envelops his entire being.

 

 

 

> _Beloved Friend,_
> 
> _I write to ensure you of My friendship and love and alert you to developments that alter our current plans. I am informed that the Vampire Queen initiated a direct and audacious attack, disrespecting all our previous agreements. It appears that this offensive was instigated by a certain close advisor, whom we both know well. It involves the abduction of the boy whose fate should be in our hands instead, and whose loyalty is pivotal to our plan and to the protection of the Prince. The move allows the Vampire Queen to negotiate the return of the letter she was forced to write, a letter which, if used at the right moment, will ensure her demise and the demise of her closest advisors, finally giving us access to her powerful armies and her vast resources. In addition, the Queen’s impudent move could initiate some reckless action on the part of those who consider the boy their comrade, the Prince included. Such a contingency jeopardizes our plans and could be perceived as an act of war, engaging armies of These Lands against many of our most loyal allies in the Other Lands and forcing us to take sides. It is imperative therefore to act immediately._
> 
> _Our course is clear. Find the boy first and make sure he knows who has saved his life so that from now on he is indebted to us. Maintain your relationship with the Prince and ensure he still sees the boy as an adversary who craves his role. It is of the utmost importance that any bonds of friendship among the two of them, among all four of them in fact, are made to disintegrate completely by planting seeds of suspicion and distrust. The Magician is the easiest target for he covets the refined discipline and sophistication of our Beloved Prince. As for the other one, whose name I refuse to put in writing, her intentions and actions are still kept secret from Me through the cunning intervention of her mother. I am told she is distracted by the demise of that incendiary agitator, whose death is what ensured the invaluable incriminating letter we now hold. I am told that she lives in ignorance of all that is possible to her. That is as should be. We must ensure she remains thus. We must ensure that any relationship with the Prince is completely dissolved._
> 
> _The Prince however must still be kept in complete ignorance as to the identity of the woman he considers his wife. We must make sure he finds solace in the one person whose fate currently is entirely in our hands, since she is the second person named in that letter alongside her Queen. Her current transgression and her role in abducting the boy will be weighed against her when her time of reckoning arrives, which will be soon and will be thorough and fierce, as is My judgment and My wrath._
> 
> _Be Vigilant against our Enemies and Generous to our Friends,_
> 
> _John Uskglass_
> 
> _“Between Wild Creatures and The World of Men He Stands”_

John Childermass feels the sonorous voice of the Raven King echoing in the smallest corners of his mind. His wrath is as terrifying as His love. It is His wrath Childermass fears now. For in his arrogance he erroneously interpreted the King’s will, revealing the identity of the vampire the Prince calls wife. Childermass pours himself a glass of wine, and then a second. He must find a way to correct this error immediately. Can he conceal it from the Raven King, he wonders? For how long? He sets the letter on the table and it dissolves into dust, as a servant enters his rooms.

“Monsieur,” he says bowing, “your tailor is here to complete the fitting of your outfit for tonight’s ball.”

The statement sounds mundane after the King’s powerful pronouncements and the realization of this terrible failure. The reminder of the event itself is unwelcome as well. A grand ball at the Tuileries hosted by the so-called King of the French on the occasion of the relocation of the royal family to that palace. Childermass has no desire to go to any ball, let alone one at that cursed, haunted, French mausoleum. But as ambassador of the Raven King he knows he must. He wonders if the occasion might afford him an opportunity to rectify his mistake.

 

Not too far from where Childermass sits with the Raven King’s decree, another letter arrives, in the hands of Captain de Treville at the Louvre. He orders Athos and Aramis into his office knowing well the two of them are not on speaking terms since the previous night.

He carefully closes the windows of his office, turns all mirrors towards the wall, and makes certain that there is no water or liquid in any jar, mug, or pot. Porthos explained that there should be no reflecting surfaces whatsoever. Still cautious however, he calls them to his desk as he opens the letter, silently inviting them to read it along with him. It is a letter from Porthos.

 

 _Dear Captain,_ he writes

 

 

> _This letter is bound to you, to Aramis, and to Athos, which means that if touched by any other party it will dissipate as if burned to ashes._
> 
> _I write to tell you that d’ Artagnan is here with me and safe, in Bonacieux’s house. I have secured this place so no one can trace or discover him. He is somewhat battered, but not worse for wear. He bids me to tell you that you should not worry. He is not alone here. He has a fine companion, a brilliant young person whose quick thinking saved our friend’s life. His name is Planchet. It is a long story. Suffice to say that Planchet despite his size, for he is a Lutin, is a brave and true friend. The two of them shall remain here, for it is probably the safest place in Paris for both, especially since it is important that no one finds out the truth about d’ Artagnan’s whereabouts. I only hope the fear of the cholera keeps old Bonacieux away for a few more days; although I am sure d’ Artagnan would not object to his niece._
> 
> _I have explained our plan to d’ Artagnan. I have explained that what we know about the two English Magicians, makes it possible to end the havoc wreaked upon These and The Other Lands. That we shall use d’ Artagnan’s abduction as pretense to venture into the Other Lands. If we succeed, then France would have ensured peace for all._
> 
> _The four of us and Rochefort shall proceed as planned, with only one change. The brilliant Planchet proposes a way to enter the Other Lands that is by far easier and faster than the one I had devised. His people use it to go in and out all the time. The safest place to attempt this would be Bonacieux’s cellar, since the house is now protected by spells. No one will detect us here. Thus we proceed as planned but instead of returning to the Garrison we will all meet at the emporium. Knock at the door twice and then once and twice again. Make sure Rochefort knows the sign and the plan._
> 
> _All for One and One for All_
> 
> _Porthos_

Aramis smiles despite herself, thinking of d’ Artagnan with his rigid ideas about the Others, being saved now by one of them, and a pink-eyed blue elf with a red feathered hat for that matter. Athos frowns and says nothing, leaving the Captain’s office. Aramis stops him as he is about to descend to the court below.

“Athos wait. This is ridiculous. What is so terrible that you need to behave in this manner?” she asks.

“Since you can read my mind you probably know,” he retorts turning his back and walking away from her incensed.

By early afternoon the Musketeers are ready in full dress uniform to accompany the King and Queen from the Palais Royal to the Tuileries, their new residence. The ball is the peak of the festivities planned for this day. Porthos joins the Garrison too, looking magnificent on his horse and in his dress uniform. The parade and the reopening of the Tuileries palace proceed with all the necessary pomp and circumstance and without any of the anticipated problems, for Paris still faces an ongoing cholera epidemic and occasional violence in the streets.

From her horse Aramis sees Guizot standing behind the King. Her eyes meet his, and he bows his head with a friendly smile that makes her shudder. Rochefort agreed to meet Guizot, despite her many objections. “It is better to know your enemy,” he said and refused to argue about it. Aramis stands in the crowded ballroom now, hoping to find Rochefort. Someone touches her gently and she turns. “You look as if you lost someone,” says Rochefort playfully.

“Jacques,” she answers annoyed and worried. “You should not be here. You should not have arranged this meeting with Guizot in this den of vipers instead of your own house.”

He takes her by the hand and leads her to a side of the great hall. “Consider this,” he says, “it is much easier for him to attack me in the privacy of my home, without any witnesses. For do you think he would spare poor Bernard or any of my other servants? But here, in public, with so many witnesses, it may be somewhat harder for him and his allies to harm me. Besides, the man who sends such an explicit letter of friendship to an enemy whom he just attempted to poison is a man who wants this move to be known. So I am doing him a favor…”

Aramis is not appeased; quite the opposite. “Don’t joke Jacques, please…there is nothing funny about any of this!”

He kisses her hand in a ceremonious manner as he whispers “I will meet you at the appointed place” and then, unable to suppress another playful smile he whispers in her ear, “I promise not to drink anything he offers…”

She is about to protest again but he stops her with a furtive kiss on her lips “make sure you make amends with Athos.” He says. “It is important that you do it soon…”

Aramis moves around the crowded ballroom. Porthos stands surrounded by a number of ladies and engaged in animated conversation. Aramis recognizes Madame Ancelot, Madame de Girardin, and Madame Segalas. She decides not to approach nor interrupt. For these are friends he adores and who knows if he shall ever see them again after this evening. Few people have ever returned from the Other Lands, and no one has ever attempted a rescue.

Rochefort’s advice lingers in her mind. She looks for Athos but he is nowhere to be found in this crowded hall. There is always another way, although she knows how enraged Athos would be that she discovered him in this manner. In fact, she knows that he is enraged. His thoughts speak of being betrayed, and are interspersed with that name that she finds impossible to hear clearly. Following his voice, she ascends a marble staircase that leads to a mezzanine overlooking the ballroom. Athos sits alone with a glass of wine in his hand, at the edge of a long marble bench that runs along a series of large windows opening to the great gardens outside the palace.

“You should not be here alone,” she says, as she joins him.

“I did not think I would be missed. Is it time?” his voice is brisk, businesslike.

“No…” she hesitates, “Listen Athos, I understand your frustration and your anger. But I have no intention of prying into your life, nor any interest in doing so…”

“And yet you do,” he says quietly, “is this not how you found me now?”

“You are very difficult to keep out of my mind Athos! For a man who speaks so little, you think too much! We are not all plotting to betray or depose you from some imaginary throne, you know! We are your friends. We care for you. I care for you…” She stands up annoyed. That is clearly not what Jacques had in mind when he suggested she made amends but she finds Athos impossible, infuriating, annoying. In her mind she begins to list all the words that describe how frustrating he is. She walks up to the balcony, vexed. A fine waltz is playing, and couples fill the dancing floor beneath.

“I hear fairies love to dance.” Athos is standing right next to her now at the balcony.

“No more than anyone else, really. It is all a convenient illusion. You can achieve a lot in politics if your enemies and some of your allies are busy dancing endlessly…” she says without turning to look at him. She is still angry.

“And who are you dancing with?” 

She turns to look at him, astonished. He no longer frowns. His gray eyes glimmer with shades of jade under the candlelight. And right there, in their simmering green glow, Aramis notices something she has never seen before: a smile.

 “You, if you ask me,” she retorts.

He extends his hand courteously. “Well then, may I have this dance?” (3)

She bows her head in silent agreement, perplexed.

“I admit,” he says, “I have never waltzed with a woman wearing a belt with two pistols and a sword but I shall accept the challenge willingly.”

She smiles and he laughs. It is pure, genuine, laughter that illuminates his handsome features. The deep green light in his eyes dances joyfully now. It is a dance she has never seen before. It is a light that she never knew existed. She knows exactly what he thinks. She can hear it clearly. She thinks exactly the same: “Tomorrow no one knows where we shall be or if we will be alive. But this night we shall be together.”

He slips his arm around her waist, gently leading her to the sweeping melody of the waltz.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Louis Philippe and his family did indeed, and reluctantly, move from the Palais Royal (or Palais Orléans) to the Tuileries on Oct. 1831. I had to bend the historical timeline slightly for the purposes of this story. The ball described here is completely fictional. 
> 
> (2) Palais Royal
> 
> (3) For an unmarried young lady at the time it would have been shocking to dance a waltz with a man at a public ball. Only married ladies could dance it. An unmarried lady might be able to dance a waltz at a private dance if she were chaperoned. Both Athos and Aramis know about this strict social convention. Of course, as Athos observes, they both break quite a few social conventions already. Besides, they do not expect to be seen.


	39. PART III: Et in Arcadia Ego

> _How long have we lingered in this Darkness? Mr. Norrell took great pride in being able to count the time. This and his books were his only solace in this hollow emptiness. “Press on, Mr. Strange! Press on!” he would urge me, his voice animated and his eyes shining with that glimmer of perversity that once enraged me so. “We are modern Magicians! We are men of knowledge and good sense. These are our two most powerful weapons against this indolent, unruly, and wicked world. We have to preserve our sanity and reason and press on! Find a way to break this spell.” Now he sits staring at the dark empty fireplace, Belasis opened on his lap always at the same page. “How long have we been here, Mr. Norrell?” I ask him every so often, not because I expect him to know but to stir some conversation. He remains mute. I fear for him. It is easy to loose oneself in the cold, gray, nothingness that is this place…_
> 
> _Where is this place? It looks like the library at Hurtfew Abbey but only within the few meters we are allowed to move, for we are bound to the ancient walls of this library as we are tethered to each other. Outside there is nothing but a moving dark cloud made of swarming ravens. On rare occasions we get a brief peek of sky through their lush, black wings. It is empty, cloudless, and gray. Are we still in England? Are we in the Other Lands? Are we caught between?_
> 
> _There is no place here. There is no time here._
> 
> _How long ago was it that I last saw my beloved Arabella? Weeks? Months? I dare not say years for it feels like yesterday. It cannot be years... I see her lovely face reflected in the water we used to get a glimpse of the world outside this endless Darkness. Her lovely face looking back at me is what keeps me from succumbing to its power. The water has long dried, so I keep her image alive in my memory by recounting its minutest details: her long dark eyelashes, her tearful eyes, the softness of her cheek, how the sweetness of her smile countered the sadness of her countenance._
> 
> _It cannot be years…_
> 
> _“The hundredth anniversary of an enchantment is often the most auspicious time for dispelling it,” Mr. Norrell told me when we first engaged in this unending battle. None of our Magic works, thus, if reason still exists, I reason that we have not been trapped here for a century. But this is not a place of reason. What if it is years? What if it is centuries? What if it is forever?_

_(Jonathan Strange published posthumously, "Notebooks from the Other Lands," edited by Marianne Strange, 1874 John Murray, London.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et in Arcadia ego: The meaning of the phrase is ambiguous. It is usually interpreted as “I too was in Arcadia,” where “I” means Death and “Arcadia” stands for a utopian, idyllic land. In effect the phrase is a “memento mori” (= a reflection on mortality.) The phrase is well known also because it appears as an inscription of a tomb in a painting by Guercino (1618-22) and in two paintings by Poussin (1627 and 1637-8.) 
> 
> This "excerpt from Mr. Strange's notebooks" is inspired by S. Clarke’s novel esp. Volume III (“John Uskglass”) and ch. 66 (“Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.”) Belasis: Jacques Belasis (1526-1604) was a notable "Argentine" magician and author of "The Instructions." Mr. Norrell owned one of the only surviving copies of this work. Although he dismissed Belasis, Mr. Norrell actually seemed to value "The Instructions" and he used the book at a crucial moment in Susanna Clarke's novel, in Volume III. The Library at Hurtfew is the library at Hurtfew Abbey, the country residence of Mr. Gilbert Norrell at Yorkshire. It is the greatest existing library and collection of works on Magic. "Arabella" is Mr. Strange's wife.


	40. Singing Stones

_I never saw a Moor—_  
_I never saw the Sea—_  
_Yet Know I how the Heather looks  
_ _And what a Billow be._

_(Emily Dickinson, 1052, composed ca. 1865)_

Constance moves along the narrow gravel path. It is early, the rising sun but a sliver of shimmering gold behind the dark blue horizon. Like a light gray cloud, the mist of dawn wafts above the purple heather and the yellow gorse of the moor. The brisk air carries with it the smell of salt and the cries of seagulls for Constance’s path follows a steep promontory high above the open sea.

 

She has walked this path almost every morning since they arrived on this remote shore, attempting to escape the cholera-infested streets of Paris. Her uncle thought it best to bring his niece back to her mother’s ancestral village in Morbihan 1. Constance’s mother, Agnés, was born and raised here before marrying and moving to Vannes, where she died giving birth to her only daughter. Constance’s father, who was born in Velay 2, had perished at sea some months earlier in the service of the French Emperor.

 

Her mother’s old home stands at the outskirts of Sarzeau. It is one of a few farmhouses scattered among small pastures, lakes, moorlands, and dunes. Constance knows little about her mother. Her uncle was kind enough to take in his brother’s orphan but had neither the time nor the disposition to impart memories and reminisce about his ill-fated brother and sister-in law. The only image Constance has of her mother is a miniature portrait in her wedding dress, her golden hair crowned with wildflowers. Constance has inherited her mother’s eyes and her rosy cheeks. She thinks of her mother, a girl of nineteen, not much older than she is now, following this same path every morning on her way to the market at Sarzeau. She finds solace imagining her mother by her side and often speaks to her in her mind as she would to a sister or a friend. She never did this in Paris. This place is lonely and strangely quiet. No human sound, for miles. Nothing but the bleating of pasturing sheep, the cries of seagulls, the wind blowing over the moor, and the thundering of the waves crushing against the rocky shores in the distance. Constance has never lived a life so desolate. She was raised in the bustle of her uncle’s emporium, greeting his customers behind the counter, running errands for him in the busy Parisian streets, and later working as a seamstress for ladies like Madame Ancelot. When they first arrived here, there were days when besides her uncle and their maid she did not speak to another soul. She wept often those first days.

 

The morning they left Paris, Monsieur d’ Artagnan had helped her onto the carriage. “Be safe, Mademoiselle,” he said, and the formality of his voice clashed with the tender sadness in his eyes. “I will write to you,” she promised although they both understood that between the cholera and the riots any correspondence would be difficult and unreliable. She has written to him almost every day since she arrived at Morbihan, her only joy on this lonely promontory, knowing that most of her letters will never reach him. She worries about him, and not just because of the disease and the violence. She has been worried since the events at Amiens. “It was a misunderstanding. Nothing happened,” he assured her. He is an inept liar. She told him so and demanded the truth. She already knew about his first encounter with Mademoiselle Pelletier on his way to Paris from Gascony. After all, Constance would never have met him had he not rushed into her in the street, trying to escape the Pelletier brothers. But the attack against him at Amiens by the Lycian Brotherhood was no small thing. Neither was Porthos’ invocation of Magic. No one practices Magic that is not sanctioned by the Raven King. Constance had insisted to hear everything. Monsieur d’ Artagnan was evasive. Aramis was injured, he said, but it all turned out well in the end. Constance is certain there is more to the story.

 

“Dear Mademoiselle,” he writes in the letter she has just received from him, his only letter so far, “Paris has become a violent and treacherous place. The old neighborhood is no longer safe. Almost everyone has left or perished in this plague. The Garrison has moved to the Louvre. Monsieur de Treville thought it best. I hope you have found a haven away from this sordid city, Mademoiselle. I hope you are content and happy. I will write as soon as I can. With Affection and Friendship, d’ Artagnan.” There is much to read between the lines of his brief letter. Much he is not imparting. Dangers he chooses not to share and temptations he dares not reveal. But there is the word, “affection” before his signature. It brightens her lonely heart with hope. No matter the dangers, no matter the temptations, she thinks, “affection” is some kind of promise.

 

She walks thinking of d’ Artagnan’s words and breathing in the morning air infused with the distant sounds of the sea. Her path takes her by the old standing stones, the ones the people of Sarzeau call “Singing Rocks.” Ancient stones like these mark all the lands of Brittany. Legend has it, many were built overnight by fairies. Sometimes, daylight surprised those gifted fairy builders and that is why some of these structures remained roofless. But the one outside Sarzeau is covered and well roofed, its pillars inscribed with carvings: wavy lines that look like snakes alongside others, which resemble the waves of the sea, and the symbol of the crescent moon. Locals used to think these rocks a sacred place but since the world changed, they avoid them, fearing any association with the Others, real or legendary. But Constance feels a great affinity to this rocky shrine, with its deep shade and quiet solitude. There is purity and elegance in the shape of these ancient rocks and their mysterious carvings. Tracing the images with her fingers she feels a strange familiarity with the inscribed shapes although she understands nothing of their meaning. “Singing Rocks” they call them, and it makes sense. Standing at a crossroads, the shrine is reached by winds from the sea and winds from the moors. They truly sing, Constance thought, the first time she entered. She could hear the deep resonant song of the stones, as if the sea-wind was playing a harp just for her. And later when the wind from the moors touched the carved surfaces of the rocks instead, Constance could hear a different song, gentle and light, like a melody played on a flute.

 

Seated at the shaded shelter of the rocks, Constance rereads d’ Artagnan’s letter, lulled by the humming of the sea-wind’s song. She is not certain how long she has been seated thus. A few minutes? Hours? When she looks up the morning light has waned. There is no other light but that of the full moon, although she cannot see it in the clear night sky. She should be surprised but she is not. This has happened before. She has had the same dream almost every night since they arrived at Morbihan. Or maybe she only thinks so. The stones glow with the warm light of fire now, their symbols animated, living. Somewhere, at the edges of her mind Constance understands their secret meaning and realizing this fills her with joy. She stands up and walks towards the firelight. She sees a large bonfire burning before the entrance of the shrine. Only it is no longer the same shrine. The shrine in her dream is larger and taller, its stone walls covered with painted markings and carvings. She also knows that she is no longer on the same lonely promontory. Rather, she is on a wind-beaten island in the middle of the open sea. Still, she finds none of this disconcerting. I am home, she rejoices. She notices much commotion now before the shrine and around the fire. The music of the sea-wind is magnified by unseen drums. She sees the shadows of dancing women. They hold hands in a circle, clad in white tunics, with wreaths of wildflowers on their long loose hair. Somehow, Constance knows she is dressed the same way.

 

“Degemer mat!” a woman’s joyful voice welcomes her in the language of her people; a language Constance never learned but now fully comprehends. The woman stands behind her and Constance cannot see her. She only feels the woman’s hand softly pushing her towards the dance. It is her mother’s hand. “C’hoar! Merc’h!” the voice continues. “Sister! Daughter!”

 

The dancing women break their circle, inviting her in. “Deus da zañsal, Morañ!” they call to her. “Come dance with us, Morañ, daughter of the sea!” There is so much joy in these words! So much happiness in hearing her true name! “I am home!” Constance’s heart leaps with excitement but she cannot move. Just like the standing stones around her, Constance is animated by the touch of the firelight and the song of the sea-wind and yet her feet are deeply rooted in the earth, restricted, impossible to move. “I want to come home!” she cries in despair and the dream dissipates.

 

She has fallen asleep in the cool shade of the ancient shrine, with d’ Artagnan’s letter in her hands. “Silly me,” she tells herself, standing up and dusting her skirts, “lingering aimlessly at this place. What if I am seen?”

 

She motions to leave, her heart heavy for all the bliss she left behind in the land of dreams. The sea-wind still sings its deep, sonorous song among the stones. Constance knows she is no longer dreaming. Yet, she is certain she can hear the wind whispering a name among the humming rocks and stone palisades….

 

“Morañ…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The story takes place in Brittany. The Gulf of Morbihan is at the NW coast of France. The region is well known for its ancient stone monuments (e.g., Carnac.) Such monuments are scattered all over Brittany. The fairy origin of these is part of local folklore. The village of Sarzeau is real and there are stone monuments in the immediate region: the menhirs of Kermaillard and Largueven and the dolmens of Kergillet and Brillac. The monument I describe here is a composite of all these and other similar monuments; it is not an accurate description of any one of these ancient sites. The language spoken in this region (the language used in the story) is Breton.   
> 2\. Bonacieux is a fictional character created by Dumas. However, there is historical evidence for a family named Bonacieux from Velay, so I kept that origin for Constance’s family.


End file.
